


Consequences

by keyrousse



Series: Wieśkowe historie/The Witcher stories [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Gen, saga inspired, shameless references to games and books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 114,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22777813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyrousse/pseuds/keyrousse
Summary: A dangerous criminal is set to take revenge on Geralt Haute, a witcher turned Homicide Detective in Vizima Police. Geralt has to divide his attention between searching for the criminal, protecting the Temerian Royal Family and keeping his own family and friends safe.Modern!AU for “The Witcher” world. It’s the direct continuation of“Appearances”.
Relationships: Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis (mild)
Series: Wieśkowe historie/The Witcher stories [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1088733
Comments: 92
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA!  
> Okay, the most important thing: this fic is heavily inspired by The Witcher Saga (the book series by Andrzej Sapkowski) and the games by CD Projekt Red, but not the Netflix show.  
> It being inspired and an AU means some (or a lot of…) events in the fic follow the course of the source material to some extent (I reserve the right to change - or not - the outcome of recognisable events ;) ), some characters were taken from it and put into this world, and most of the names here were simply stolen from the source, so if you recognise anything, that was probably done on purpose.  
> About the calendar and dates that will appear here: I use the Elven Calendar dates. Since I don’t think we’ve ever gotten any kind of explicit information about the measure of time, I use [this page](https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Elven_calendar) as the reference. Each savaed (month) is 45 days long, a week is 7 days long, a day is 24 hours. “Appearances” ended at 1 Imbaelk - at the end of January/beginning of February. This fic starts at 25 Birke - close to mid-April.  
> About the geography of the world: it’s based on [this map](https://i.redd.it/ht2ighn7e5f31.jpg). I also use the in-game locations.

_It’s like having a target painted on our backs,_ Adon Carre thinks, his lips pursed and brow furrowed, as he looks at the whole set up: the three armoured vehicles, over twenty law enforcement officers and a government-issued cargo plane.

He’d prefer to go far more undercover, but when dealing with Roggeveen a small escort is in as much danger as this kind of convoy.

Roggeveen himself was put in his armoured vehicle back in Gors Velen prison and isn’t supposed to leave it until they reach Novigrad. Shackled with dimeritium he doesn’t pose too much danger, considering he can’t see, but they all remember he still has a vast network of associates. During the last ten weeks, the Royals and the Redanian Secret Service were focused on looking for people who had worked for him, but they knew it was hopeless. Roggeveen’s associates rarely knew each other, so even those with a conscience couldn’t help the law enforcement expose the rest.

The convoy was kept as secret as possible, but with this many people and using public airports they are bound to be exposed. All they can do is make the transfer as smooth as possible, with tight security and no delays. The paperwork at the airports has already been dealt with, so there will be no checks at the border. They fly out, land in Oxenfurt, get backup from the Redanian Secret Service, drive straight to Novigrad and put Roggeveen in a high-security prison there. At least, that’s the plan.

Adon adjusts the strap of his machine gun and looks again at the tasks and personnel list.

Their magical support, Yoël Grethen from Carreras, is already on board the plane. Despite being from the same city and about the same age as Adon, the sorcerer doesn’t feel the need to socialise, which is fine by the witcher. Sorcerers and witchers rarely get along.

Someone clears their throat and Adon looks up to see a young man in a military uniform, armed with a handgun on his belt.

“Marcus Dysant, checking in, sir.” He flashes his ID.

Adon grunts in reply, finds the guy’s name and places a tick next to it. He looks around. The plane is almost loaded, the vehicle with Roggeveen already on the ramp to the cargo hold.

“I’m sorry for being late,” Dysant says as Adon motions for him to get on the plane.

“You’re not,” Adon replies. “We’re still here, we wouldn’t be waiting for you.”

The last armoured vehicle drives past them up the ramp. Adon ticks the last item on the list and goes to the cockpit.

“All in, we’re ready to go,” he reports. The two pilots start sending orders and reports at the flight control and the tower. The ramp goes up. The engines are already on.

Adon goes to the vehicle with Roggeveen in it, opens the back door and says to the guard inside:

“Get out and strap yourself in. I’ll fly in the car.”

The man nods and goes to one of the still free seats along the side of the plane. The plane lurches slightly as it’d readied into a start position.

 _That’s all done_ , Adon realises and throws his list on the nearby package. He gets into the car with Roggeveen and puts on his seatbelt. Roggeveen already has his belt on. The man sits stiffly on the far end of the hold, cuffed hand and foot, his face looking fairly normal except for the eyes, covered with a milky membrane.

“Do you need anything, Mister Roggeveen?” Adon asks.

“No, thank you, Agent Carre,” the man replies slowly without turning his head.

Adon likes flying — more than travelling by portals — but happily gets out of the vehicle once the pilots report they can unfasten their seatbelts. He leans against the side of the vehicle, looking through the small window of the plane and unwilling to let anyone access the prisoner.

“He fell low, didn’t he?”

Adon turns to see the young man from before, Dysant, standing by the open door of the cargo hold and looking at Roggeveen with some kind of scowl on his face.

“Who, Roggeveen?” Adon asks. “You think he fell low by getting arrested?”

Dysant turns to him, apparently surprised by the disapproval in Adon’s voice.

“Well, yeah, over a decade of building a criminal empire…” Dysant shrugs and waves his hand at the blind and cuffed man inside the vehicle.

“How old are you?” Adon asks with a frown on his face.

“Twenty five, sir,” Dysant replies and stands at attention.

Adon rolls his eyes.

“Great, so they’ve sent me a student? On a high-security prisoner transport?”

“I graduated two years ago, I was the second in my class,” Dysant protests.

“Ah, yeah, all knowledge, muscles and self-confidence, but no actual brain or self-preservation,” Adon snorts. “Let me tell you something. A student like you getting caught with a kilo of fisstech is what we can call falling low. Or getting fired from the police for talking bullshit like this, despite being the second in your class.”

Dysant pales.

“You do not, under any circumstances, underestimate the person who has spent ten years building a criminal empire, especially when it’s a powerful person of magic, dimeritium cuffs or not.” Adon stabs the kid’s chest with his finger. “You better get your ass in that truck,” Adon points at the vehicle standing the closest to the ramp, “and stay there, because you say anything like that ever again, disrespecting someone who can destroy you with a snap of his fingers, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Dysant scrambles to the pointed vehicle and disappears behind it. Adon knows his reaction was harsh, but as non-superstitious he is, underestimating the adversary is the first step to failure.

When he looks at Roggeveen, the man stares at him with those unseeing eyes with his head tilted in interest.

“So you respect me?” Roggeveen asks, his voice mild.

Adon frowns. It’s a weird question, like since when does Roggeveen need validation?

He shrugs and then rolls his eyes at himself. It’s not like Roggeveen can see.

“I respect what you’re capable of,” he admits. “Don’t mistake it for applauding your accomplishments.”

“Of course not,” Roggeveen says and turns away.

Adon feels a chill run down his spine.

* * *

Geralt blocks Eskel’s jab with the stick in his left hand and grunts. He pirouettes and aims the stick in his right hand at Eskel’s side, but the man jumps back and responds with his own attack, to Geralt’s right leg. Geralt has to put his weight on his left leg to avoid the hit, but he feels it’s close to buckling.

“Damn it,” he mutters and jumps at Eskel again, hitting from above, aiming for Eskel’s right hand, but the man uses the opening to hit Geralt’s ribs on his left side. Geralt, thrown from his jump, has to roll to not land on his side. He stands up and has to use both hands to block the double attack from Eskel. Eskel’s sticks slide along his own and once they’re separated, Geralt deals two quick jabs: one to Eskel’s thigh, the other to his left hand.

To his satisfaction, both land and Eskel jumps back with a grunt; he spins and attacks furiously, a growl escaping from behind his bared teeth. He’s stronger than Geralt; the white-haired witcher used to have agility as an advantage, but it doesn’t help him this time. Eskel starts to play dirty and lands a few hits on Geralt’s left shoulder and thigh, only angering his brother. Geralt throws away the stick in his left hand, takes a two-step run-up, jumps and aims for Eskel’s head, only to be hit to the stomach and finally land heavily on the mat, panting.

“Godsdamnit,” Geralt mutters, throws away the second stick and stares at the ceiling of the station’s gym. “Could’ve bigger chances with Ciri, I’m on her level now.”

“She’s good, you know,” Eskel says, standing over him, and reaches out his hand to help Geralt stand up.

Geralt tilts his head and it takes him two seconds to accept the help. His right hand twinges with pain; he decides to keep his left shoulder immobile for a while.

“For a teenager?” he asks.

Eskel scoffs.

“For a human. Not that she had much choice, she was raised by a witcher. Good thing she’s not a bully, with her skills she would be insufferable.”

“She’s got the skills because she’s not a bully,” Geralt replies. “I wouldn’t teach her if it caused trouble.”

They go together to the lockers. Eskel is regarding him calmly, probably noticing the slight limp. Geralt can only wait for difficult questions.

“I thought the healers in Gors Velen took care of the neural damage?” Eskel asks as they change into their daily clothes.

“They did, it’s probably Roggeveen’s magic that makes healing so slow,” Geralt replies, fixing his three centimetres-long hair, recently cut into a military style, shorter on the sides of his head. Over a savaed growing it and it’s at this very difficult-to-handle stage of living its own life. Geralt hates hair products, but a little bit of gel is necessary to keep the white strands in some kind of order. Regis claims he’s still handsome. Geralt feels like cutting it to the skin again. The hair debacle takes his mind off the matter of residual pain in his shoulder, thigh and hands. “No witcher work for me for a few more weeks, I’m afraid the spring cleaning night will be up to you and Lambert,” he adds.

“We’ll handle it, you know that,” Eskel waves his hand. They walk towards the stairs. “I know it’s frustrating, but if you overexert yourself it’ll take even longer.”

“Anything else you have to say, Nurse Garde?” Geralt growls and gets a chuckle in response.

“It’s nice, though, isn’t it?” Eskel continues. “Being able to take some time off witcher work because of injuries. Twenty years ago you’d have to go on to be able to feed yourself.”

“That’s freelancing for you,” Geralt shrugs. They’ve been settled in Vizima for over ten years — sixteen in Geralt’s case — but they still remember the times before the King’s Edict. It was a tough life and the four of them are happy it’s over.

He’s glad he’s able to do a desk job. Some running around won’t hurt, but he needs to be in top form if he wants to hunt monsters. Police work is more forgiving, especially with his current case, requiring more reading than running.

Ciri was close to begging Vesemir to let him get back to work after two weeks, as he was driving everyone crazy, including Regis. On one hand, he is happy Ciri’s fine with Regis now, whatever happened between them when he wasn’t looking or conscious; on the other, now he’s easily outvoted on some of his less reasonable ideas, as he can’t argue with two of the most important people in his life. Once Ciri opened up to Regis, they quickly became friends and, unfortunately, caretakers of Geralt after he returned from Gors Velen, keeping him in line while he healed. The three of them still aren’t living together, but they see each other almost every day.

When Geralt and Eskel reach the floor of the Homicide Dept, Geralt puts on his leather jacket, takes his backpack, phone and keys.

“Need to shower before the committee, see you probably tomorrow,” he says as Eskel settles at his desk.

“Yeah, don’t kill anyone,” Eskel replies as he boots up his computer.

Geralt shrugs and goes back downstairs, to his trusty motorbike.

* * *

The flight to Oxenfurt went without a hitch. They’re about to land when Adon is called to the cockpit.

“Eilhart here, Redanian Secret Service, I need the officer in charge,” a female voice says on the radio.

Adon picks up the microphone.

“Adon Carre, Royal Investigative Force, checking in.”

He remembers Eilhart from the time around Roggeveen’s arrest. He’s sure she’s one of the people to blame for the whole transfer of Roggeveen to Novigrad. He’d prefer to keep the man in Gors Velen, but since Roggeveen’s a Redanian citizen, the authorities from behind the northern border were very eager to get their hands on him: he had caused a lot of trouble in Redania before he moved to Temeria. Attorney Generals from both countries settled on the trial in Novigrad, as it is the neutral ground — in theory, at least. Novigrad is about as Redanian as the country’s capital, Tretogor.

“Agent Carre! Where’s your boss?” Eilhart asks.

“Busy believing I can handle this on my own,” Adon quips and gets a snort in reply.

“Everything’s ready, we pick you up once you land and drive straight to Novigrad, no stops.”

“Roger that.”

“Get ready for landing,” the pilot says. Adon puts down the microphone and goes to the armoured vehicle with Roggeveen still strapped in. The agent that kept an eye on the prisoner while Adon was gone helps him get in and they both fasten their seatbelts. The backdoor is left open for now: it will be closed just before they leave the plane.

Dysant didn’t leave his assigned vehicle for the whole flight. Good for him, Adon still doesn’t want to look at the idiot.

The landing is mild. Someone closes the vehicle’s back door, Adon locks it from the inside. He has no idea where they are, but it doesn’t matter.

“Comm check,” he says into his radio and gets all the appropriate responses.

He feels the vehicle drive down the plane’s ramp.

He feels his heart speed up. During this part they’re the most vulnerable: it’s about a two hour drive from the airport to Novigrad, then they have to drive across the city. He curses the people who didn’t think that one of the largest cities in the North needs an airport. Sure, Novigrad is built on a group of islands and densely populated, so there’s no space for a proper international airport, but Adon believes that expanding the city’s borders to accommodate one is only a matter of some diplomacy and shifting borders a few kilometres this way or that. Novigrad is rich enough, strategically important enough and connected to Redania closely enough to have some leverage on that matter.

He’s not superstitious. He doesn’t succumb to panic. He knows how to stay calm in a difficult situation. He has his gun, his magic and over a hundred and thirty years of fighting experience, including his witcher training.

But he’s also dealing with one of the most dangerous men in Temeria and Redania, and with this plan and the idiots he’s been sent he starts to feel like there’s only a tiny chance of reaching their destination.

He wonders how much it will hurt.

He glances at Roggeveen, who’s turned towards him and almost staring at him again.

Judging by the sounds coming from outside, they’re on the highway to Novigrad.

Adon tries to remember if anyone contacted Roggeveen while he was in prison. He doesn’t think so. The whole exchange of information between the Royals, Redanian Secret Service and Attorney Generals on both sides of the border before prior to the transport was kept on as close channels as possible, limited to about ten people. Most of the policemen and agents assigned to this convoy weren’t sure what or who exactly they were transporting until the very last moment, and all communication is still monitored.

It’s too late now.

“I understand you’re a witcher, Agent Carre,” Roggeveen says, his voice mild again.

“Yes,” Adon replies.

“What’s your kind’s approach towards mercy?”

Adon feels a chill run down his spine again.

“Depends on the situation,” he replies carefully. “We deal with all sorts of creatures with different motivations for their actions. Some deserve mercy, some not.”

“Showing it, yes. What about asking for it?”

Adon turns his radio on, still looking at Roggeveen. He has a feeling that the man can see him, somehow.

“All officers, high alert,” he says and receives a chorus of ‘rogers’. “Don’t think so,” Adon says to Roggeveen. “We’re created to die in a fight, monsters don’t show mercy. The only mercy we can ever receive is a quick death.”

“Would you beg for it if you had a chance?”

Adon laughs, throwing his head back. He can feel his medallion vibrating slightly. Someone shouts a warning through the radio.

“Why waste time and dignity if I’m going to be killed anyway,” he says, feeling the icy calm overtaking him. He’s prepared for what’s about to happen. He’s old for a witcher, he did what he could; he’s proud of himself and how he’s lived his life. “Too bad I won’t be there to see what Haute, Eilhart and the Royals will do to you once they find you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roggeveen replies with a scoff and turns away from Adon.

“My medallion’s vibrating. I bet it’s not Grethen,” Adon says, still laughing. “Of course you have a contingency plan, you’re too smart and too influential to get yourself simply put in a damp hole of a prison. So bring it on, Vilgefortz Roggeveen, and then watch your world burn, because knowing Haute, he didn’t forget you and he knows how to bring a storm.”

Something explodes ahead of them.

* * *

“I think you’ve got the wrong impression when you were invited to this committee, Mister Aubry,” Anaïs La Valette, the heiress of the Temerian throne, says, her voice carrying across the room. “We’re not debating whether or not to include the resolutions of the Edict in the Temerian Constitution: that is going to happen anyway. We’re here to decide on the form and the extent, which parts to put into the Constitution and which should be regulated by separate public acts.”

Geralt smiles and circles the name Anzelm Aubry in his notes. The man is a lobbyist and pretty openly racist.

Aubry murmurs something and slumps down his chair.

“It’s been twenty years since the Edict was heralded and it’s the perfect time to analyse the impact it had on the Temerian society,” Anaïs says, addressing the room of twenty committee members. “One of the most often brought up topics is crime. Officer Haute, can you read your report?”

Geralt stands up, fixes his tie, glances at his notes and starts:

“In all populations of humans and elder races, the crime rate, both heavy and light, is statistically the same. Among the new populations that appeared after the Edict, heavy crime is practically non-existent. Among the human-like individuals, even the light crime is very rare, and that remains unchanged after the probationary period passes for both the individual and the person who vouched for them.”

“What does it mean?” someone asks.

“The requirement of probation means that people are far less willing to vouch for potential criminals,” Geralt says, barely hiding his exasperation.

“We’re still talking about shapeshifters,” Aubry spits.

“Yes, and I’m saying that the crime rate among them is almost non-existent,” Geralt argues.

“What about witchers, Officer Haute?” Aubry says. “The first major beneficiaries of the Edict. We all know they’re trained killers, monster hunters, abominations devoid of emotions…”

Geralt rolls his eyes. _Is Aubry that stupid?_

Judging by the snickers of laughter from some other committee members, he’s not alone with the thought.

“Four of them work in Vizima Police with a very high success rate and no complaints about their conduct. Moreover, I am one of them.”

Aubry frowns and opens his mouth.

“Let me ask you something, Mister Aubry,” Anaïs says, not letting Aubry interrupt Geralt. “From your previous statements I can gather that you consider yourself a voice of reason for this committee. You’re here to not let the “abominations” get the privileges you think should be reserved for humans. You’re so eager to protect humans from the very hypothetical crimes of shapeshifters, despite being just told that human-like individuals live far more honest lives than the rest of the races. Where’s the logic of that?”

“What are you implying, M’Lady?” Aubry asks.

Anaïs shrugs with a playful smile.

“That you’re racist, not the voice of reason,” Geralt replies for her.

“Thank you, Officer Haute,” Anaïs says, laughter clear in her voice. “Speaking of human-like individuals, who, exactly, does this category consist of?”

“People who are afraid of facing prejudice due to their species affiliation,” Geralt replies calmly. “Some of them are considered dangerous monsters by people who don’t know or don’t want to believe that they’re fully capable of assimilating into society.”

“What species are we talking about?”

“Mainly human-looking shapeshifters, powerful immortals… Dopplers and higher vampires.”

“Are you saying that there are higher vampires among society?” Aubry exclaims. “A great reason to get rid of the category and make them register under their own…”

“And this reaction is the exact reason why we should keep it!” another member of the committee, Countess Anna Kameny, cuts in. “It doesn’t matter that they’re valuable members of the society, living honestly, helping law enforcement, paying taxes and saving lives. People see a higher vampire and they’re ready to club them to death with garlic and aspen clubs.”

“Which won’t work, by the way,” Geralt murmurs. Kameny has been on his side from the very beginning. He can’t help but wonder why she has no trouble with vampires. Very few people are that open-minded.

“So, Mister Haute, as a witcher, you claim it’s safe to let them live among humans and other races?” Anaïs asks.

“We already do. They easily assimilate, they don’t require blood for survival, so abstaining ones are just as valuable members of society as anyone else who just live their life and cause no trouble,” Geralt says, his voice strong and sure.

“But if they don’t abstain…”

“Then we have a problem, but it’s something they deal with among their own, with some help from the law enforcement and witchers. Just like with any other crime committed by any other member of any other race.”

The silence lasts for five seconds after his statement.

“Alright. I think it’s time to call for a break,” Anaïs says and Geralt can barely contain his relief.

Geralt is loosening his tie on his way out of the committee hall of Vizima Castle, when he notices Regis, standing by the corridor wall, dressed in his off-work clothes, with a patterned, dark, button-down shirt, black cotton trousers and casual jacket. As Geralt approaches him, he can’t help but wonder what Aubry would say if he knew that one of the best surgeons in the city is a member of that dreaded species Aubry would happily chop to pieces.

“How was your day?” Regis asks and returns the hug Geralt gives him.

“Ugh, I’ve just spent two hours talking,” Geralt groans and leads Regis towards the exit, his hand on Regis’ back. “I’d really like to use my mouth for something else for a while,” he adds, fully aware of the way it sounds.

“Food?” Regis asks with an innocent smile.

“That’s one option, yes.”

They take a taxi to the Chameleon. They don’t talk on the way, as details of their jobs aren’t suitable for any prying ears. Once they step through the door of the familiar inn, they’re greeted by Ilona, the head waitress, and they go to the alcove with the couches in the back of the main room: their usual spot.

Dandelion notices them quite quickly, but he’s easily distracted, so it takes five minutes before they’re given the menus.

“Committee work must be tedious,” Regis says politely, studying it.

“With racists believing their vote matters, it is,” Geralt grumbles, closing the menu with a snap. He knows it by heart by now, he doesn’t need it. “By the way, would you agree to reveal your species if the law required it?”

Regis shoots him a sideways look.

“Only if it wasn’t met with prejudice,” he replies.

“Thought so,” Geralt nods.

Some people think that allowing some species’ members to hide their affiliation is racist itself as if it makes the shapeshifters ashamed of who they are. On the other hand, it’s safer for them. Hiding the affiliation means they need someone to vouch for them, but once they are allowed to stay in Temeria, no-one asks about their species: it’s a non-issue. Asking is racist. People are free to admit who they are, but if they don’t want to, there’s this blanket category. One thing is punishable, though: lying about the affiliation. A non-human can’t claim they’re human, because once detected they face a prison sentence or extradition.

Regis seems happy being categorised as a human-like individual. Geralt was the one who vouched for him years ago; his accountability for Regis’ possible crimes ended without any incidents, and now Regis could be the head of the Surgery Ward in St. Lebioda’s Hospital if he liked the paperwork about as much as he hates it now.

The main door opens and another individual walks in. Geralt quickly recognises the medium-built, medium-height bald man dressed in dark, loose clothes, knowing that this person isn’t as human as they look.

“Dudu!” Regis calls to them, raising his hand.

The human-looking doppler returns the gesture, comes over and flops down on the armchair just as a waitress arrives to take their orders.

Dudu asks for a beer, Geralt and Regis order their dinners.

“How’s Novigrad?” Regis asks politely once the waitress is gone.

Geralt has forgotten that Dudu went there to see their doppler friend, Chappelle; it also explains why they chose the human form over their other favourite, which is a male halfling. Novigrad is one of the most racist cities in the Northern Kingdoms; it’s also one of the biggest and richest, so while Geralt tries to visit it as rarely as possible, he understands the appeal.

Dudu scoffs.

“A dump, more than usual. I’m going back there first thing in the morning to get Chappelle out before it’s too late.”

“That bad?” Geralt asks.

“It’s almost like in the middle ages, you know. No stakes, just other ways to destroy you while not letting you leave the country,” Dudu drawls through their teeth.

The waitress brings Dudu’s beer. The doppler drinks a solid gulp.

“I’m sure Dandelion will let him stay here until he’s settled,” Regis says mildly, watching their friend.

“I know and you have no idea how thankful I am. We are, I mean: Chappelle is aware he has friends here,” Dudu replies with a nod. “It’s frustrating though, you know? You live here and you see what’s possible, then you move through Redania and Novigrad and see the stupid old shit no-one wants to change, in the name of some kind of racial superiority.”

They agree solemnly: the witcher, the higher vampire and the doppler, three top beneficiaries of the King’s Edict from twenty years ago.

* * *

Adon’s radio is quiet, the only thing he hears from the outside are screams of agony. The air in the hold of the armoured vehicle is hot. The car stopped at the very beginning of the assault, the driver killed almost instantly.

Roggeveen is staring at Adon with those milky, unseeing eyes; the witcher returns the look, not blinking. He knows he’ll die soon.

Carre’s weapons melted into a puddle of plastic and metal a long time ago. His phone doesn’t work.

There’s a sorcerer on the other side of the metal walls, and they’re killing everyone, burning everyone, getting closer to Roggeveen.

Adon can’t kill Roggeveen for any reason. He can be killed himself, but he can’t touch Roggeveen, even though he’s fully aware of what hell will be let loose once the prisoner is free.

Now, there’s only silence outside. Roggeveen is smirking at him.

Adon casts Quen and opens the compartment doors. He jumps to the ground and looks around.

There’s a magical dome over them, about a hundred metres in diameter, covering the three vehicles that left Gors Velen. Behind it stands Philippa Eilhart, her arms lowered along her sides, hands clenched into fists in helplessness. The ground is burnt, bodies are lying everywhere, so charred they’re unrecognisable. People gather outside the dome, screaming something, but they can’t cross, Adon can’t even hear them.

A man is standing a few metres from him, tall, with black eyes and a sharp nose, his hands raised, with two balls of fire prepared above them.

Adon hears steps of someone approaching him from behind. His Quen breaks. He clenches his fists and takes a deep breath.

“So, you respect me?” Roggeveen asks, his voice is almost friendly.

“Watch your world burn,” Adon murmurs and suddenly there are two hands on both sides of his head, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is beta-read by [embeer2004](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embeer2004/pseuds/embeer2004).  
> The M rating is because of the easiness I use swearwords in here and the potential level of violence. There will be no sex scenes, and the romantic relationships are not the main focus of the story.  
> Also, regarding Dudu and their pronouns: I'm a heterosexual cis woman, having no real-life friends from LGBT+ community and living in a country where there are communities proud of being a "LGBT-free" zones. I really hope I treat my LGBT+ characters with proper respect; if I don't, please let me know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. We're back with Part Two of the Setup.  
> Chapter 1 has been edited, so reading it is recommended, including the very long notes at the beginning: they will sort-of prepare you for what's to come. I can promise a new chapter every week or two. The fic is written and undergoing the last edits, it's about 115k-words long.
> 
> To the 13 subscribers: please know that I love you. I hope it was worth the wait.

Philippa gets her mobile phone signal back the moment the magic dome disappears: she puts her earset in immediately. The whole attack took ten minutes, which she spent watching the scene from outside of the dome, painfully helpless, trying to remember as many details about the involved fire sorcerer as she could to check it later.

She calls Dijkstra first using a safe connection; she watches agents from the part of the convoy that survived as they run up to her.

“Take as many photos as you can,” she orders one of the agents as she waits for her boss to pick up. Once he does, she doesn’t waste time on greetings. “Dijkstra, Roggeveen escaped, all the Temerians are dead. There was a powerful sorcerer specialised in fire magic, they portalled out, I’m going to try to track them down. You need to call the Royals.”

There is a second of stunned silence on the other end of the call.

“Fuck,” comes from Dijkstra.

“We have to get full collaboration, we need as many resources as we can,” Philippa continues while taking photos of the bodies. The agent she talked with earlier photographs the vehicles and the traces of magic. All helpful, but there will be a lot of reading and studying involved later for her.

“When will you know where he’s landed?” Dijkstra asks.

“Once I get a proper map. Half an hour here and I’ll go to the Oxenfurt office. You also need to warn Haute.”

“Why?”

“He exposed Roggeveen, the bastard will go after him.”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m not a fan of Haute, true, but he gets the job done, and I’ve just seen fifteen years of my hard work go to waste.”

“Knowing Haute he’ll tell us to go fuck ourselves,” Dijkstra murmurs. Philippa now remembers Haute has known Dijkstra. She always forgets to ask about that.

“Doesn’t matter, I know him well enough to be sure he’ll get involved anyway. Alright, we’ve both got work to do. I’ll call you from Oxenfurt.”

She goes to the spot where she’s last seen the fire sorcerer. She looks around; everyone is too busy collecting evidence to pay her any mind. She murmurs a short spell with her hand above the patch of unscorched ground. Her eyes stray towards the crumpled and burnt body of Adon Carre. _I can handle this on my own,_ he’d said.

“You didn’t have a chance,” she murmurs to the corpse and casts the same spell at the place she’s last seen Roggeveen, behind Carre’s back.

She photographs Carre’s body from as many angles as she can, the picture disturbing and somewhat different from the rest of the bodies. She’s too rattled to think about it any deeper. She’ll have time in Oxenfurt.

The police have already secured the area, unwilling to step onto the burnt circle. It’s fine by her, her people can handle it.

The shitstorm will soon arrive anyway.

* * *

The place where Vilgefortz and Rience landed smells of forests, moors and old graveyards; ruins, Vilgefortz realises, and a river. The air is humid.

They’ve landed somewhere underground, but Vilgefortz expects the chamber — judging by the echoes — to be prepared for spending an extensive time here.

“Where are we?” Vilgefortz asks. “Carcano or Vidort?”

“Vidort,” Rience replies with a hint of awe in his voice. “You wanted a place within Temerian borders, Lower Sodden is part of Temeria, so here we are. A jump across the Yaruga and…”

“No jumping,” Vilgefortz snaps. “We can’t risk using magic now, at least one that’s easily detected, yours is too flashy and I have no intention of leaving the country. With closed borders, which will happen soon, I believe, we’d better avoid ID control, so that is out of the question, too.”

“Why here?” Rience asks as Vilgefortz settles down in an armchair. “You could have gone anywhere, why stay in Temeria?”

“I have my reasons and I will disclose them later. Now, I need a bath and something to eat. Is there anything like that in this dump?”

Rience huffs and sets to prepare the bath.

Vilgefortz is sure he’ll go crazy if he’s holed up here for too long, but it’s not like he has many other options. Both Carcano and Vidort — ruins still standing where the Ina River flows into the Yaruga, south of Mealybug Moors — were destroyed hundreds of years ago in a magical battle, leaving both places destroyed and uninhabitable; the battle created a strong magical shield around the area, causing monsters to rise and technology to get broken. It should be impossible for any person of magic to stay here, but Rience had time to prepare the place with proper spells. It makes their magic harder, but not impossible, to detect; Groundcherry Woods and Mealybug Moors nearby also make them difficult to find. He doubts they can expect anyone to look for them here; there will be no flyovers and no search parties. People stay away from this place. With the ruins of the old Sodden castle so close to both the Ina and Yaruga rivers, they have ways to escape. The location is good, and entirely Rience’s idea, but he’s not going to tell that to the renegade sorcerer. It’s easier to keep him in line.

* * *

“I know I’m not supposed to ask about the committee work,” Regis starts as they walk from the Chameleon towards his flat in the Temple Quarter, their shoulders brushing.

“Yeah, you’re not,” Geralt replies with no bite in his voice. “Me being part of it is a cover for my investigation anyway.”

“It’s dreadful,” Regis sighs. “I don’t understand why someone would threaten anyone for being inclusive.”

The threats against the King and his daughter are pretty much public knowledge. People know someone wants to kill the King, but the details are limited to the interested parties. Most of the public expressed their outrage at the first news of the threats that arose after the Royal Family started working on including the Edict in the Constitution. The investigation has lasted three weeks so far, with barely any clues to follow. Geralt in the committee is almost an undercover job; he’s joined it on its second session. Thankfully, there’s a lot he can say during sessions, he’s not just an observer looking for potential conspirators against the lawful rulers of the country.

“There are always assholes, Regis,” Geralt replies. “One of the reasons Anaïs wants the Edict included in the Constitution; it’ll be much harder to revoke it.”

“And yet that’s what brought trouble to her and the King. She seems like a decent person,” Regis murmurs, watching the road as they walk.

“She’s good.”

Geralt knows it’s quite a declaration from him, but he genuinely likes the Princess. He respects King Foltest and is glad the heiress firmly expresses the intentions to follow at least the more reasonable paths of the ruling of her father. Geralt hates politics and avoids being a part of it, but the committee work is something he can be proud of. It’s also a good reason for him to stay close to Anaïs and the King while being inconspicuous.

“How well do you know Chappelle?” Regis asks.

“Met him once,” Geralt says. “Have no idea why he stayed in Novigrad for so long.”

“Can Dudu vouch for him?”

“Think so, Dudu registered as a doppler, not a human-like individual, so there was no probationary period for them.”

“Ah, yes, I think you’re right,” Regis nods.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, you know. I have this urge to bring all of our non-human friends to the safety of Temeria. Can’t have you to do all the work in that regard.”

Geralt laughs at that.

“Ah, yeah,” he agrees as they reach Regis’ flat.

* * *

It takes two hours for Anna Ves to arrive in Oxenfurt. The small woman is fuming, and Philippa can’t blame her.

“What the hell happened?” Ves barks after she closes the door of Philippa’s office behind her.

“Roggeveen happened,” Dijkstra leans back in the armchair by the wall, watching Philippa work on tracking down Roggeveen’s portal. Philippa is leaning over the world map on the table, using a stinking incense, hand gestures and elaborate spells murmured under her breath. Ves frowns at the display of magic and purses her lips.

“I’m sure it’s even more illegal here than in Temeria,” she murmurs and settles in a chair by the desk.

“I don’t care what Radovid and Temerians say about magic, I have mine and I’m going to use every bit of it to track down Roggeveen,” Philippa says, not looking at her. A soft light appears on the map, brighter around the crime scene and the vague area of southern Temeria, Sodden and Angren.

Dijkstra gets up from the armchair, limps to the rolled-up maps in the corner of the room and finds one of Temeria. The map covers the areas close to the border and it’s more detailed than what Philippa is using right now. At Philippa’s nod, he unrolls it over the world map and the sorceress repeats the procedure.

“I’m losing the signal,” she admits after a while. “I can’t get a proper fix.”

“Southern Temeria anyway,” Dijkstra says, looking at the map.

“Definitely north of the Yaruga,” Philippa agrees. “Lower Sodden, western Angren, southern Mahakam.”

“Our jurisdiction,” Ves sums up and sighs.

“Between us, we can promise a full collaboration,” Dijkstra says. “I’m sure the higher-ups will agree.”

Ves nods.

“If they don’t, we already have everything we’ve learnt so far prepared to be sent to Roche,” Dijkstra continues and limps back to his armchair.

Philippa opens the window to let the smoke of the incense out, then goes to the adjacent bathroom and washes her hands.

“Roche is on his way to Vizima,” Ves says. “The procedure for closing the borders has already been launched. We have enough on our heads to not risk Roggeveen getting in — or getting out, never to be found again.”

“I don’t think Roggeveen will just disappear,” Philippa says from the bathroom door as she dries her hands.

Ves looks at her warily.

“What are the chances Roggeveen will move on and not cause mayhem?” she asks.

Philippa shakes her head.

“Slim. He’s blind and dependent on others,” she says and sits at her desk, facing Ves. Her back is straight, she keeps her hands on the desk in front of her and plays with a pen. “I think he’ll spend some time to find a way to see, but he’s also going to go after everyone who brought him down, especially Geralt Haute.”

“Haute is working on the assassination threats on the King,” Ves murmurs.

“Roggeveen won’t make it too personal, I mean he won’t limit himself to surprise attacks, shootings in the night and so on. He’ll involve as many people as possible to make Haute’s life difficult, and Haute’s an easy target. Be careful so he’s not considered a suspect in that assassination case. It’s possible that Roggeveen will turn against Emhyr var Emreis, as well. var Emreis can take care of himself, but he’s also vulnerable due to his position and influence.”

“Haute’s also less likely to accept protection,” Dijkstra adds. “Both he and var Emreis are stubborn bastards, but Roggeveen is even more so.”

Ves blows out the air in a drawn-out sigh, deflating at the same time.

“I guess we’ll need a lot of your help. Roggeveen was operating in Temeria for ten years, yet you seem to know him like the back of your hand.”

“I’ve been working on the bastard for fifteen years, ten of those incognito in Temeria,” Philippa says, nodding at Dijkstra, who doesn’t react. “I want him behind bars. I want him gone,” she drawls through her teeth, seeping hatred. “You didn’t have the opportunity to truly start hating him, but I’m sure that you will soon and I feel sorry for you already.”

Ves stares at her with wide eyes, full of fear.

* * *

Geralt glares at Roche as the man sets up the computer in Homicide Dept’s conference room. Due to the late hour, there are only two of them on the whole floor. Geralt sits with his feet on the table and arms crossed on his chest; his suit jacket hangs over the backrest, his tie is loose. Roche, pale, hair dishevelled, hands shaking, is focused on the ancient equipment he barely knows how to use. Geralt doesn’t get up to help him.

“Look,” Roche says once the system is booted and he has his phone hooked up to show the photos from the crime scene.

Geralt gets up with a long-suffering sigh, stands behind Roche and looks at the screen with a frown.

“What am I looking at?” he asks, even though he knows it already.

“I hoped you would find something we missed,” Roche replies and stands up, leaving the chair in front of the computer empty.

“You screwed up the one job you had and now you want me to do another job for you?”

“Geralt, fuck,” Roche snaps, hitting the table with his fist. “That cunt killed one of my best people. I realise you have reasons to be angry, but don’t be fucking petty and look at the photos.”

“You’re so useless,” Geralt replies in a dull tone, but then he turns to the monitor and squints at the low-quality photos.

“He’ll come after you,” Roche murmurs and puts his hands in his trousers pockets.

“I know, but it’s not really my problem, is it? I’ll protect myself the best I can, but the fact that he’s free now isn’t my responsibility.”

Roche huffs.

“Rub it in, why don’t you. I need that.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, sits down in front of the computer and looks properly at the photos.

“Fire sorcerer,” he says. “Someone with a different skill set than Roggeveen, that dome required a lot of power.”

“That’s pretty much what Eilhart told us,” Roche says with a heavy sigh.

“Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?” Geralt snaps. “I haven’t read the report and I don’t intend to.”

Roche purses his lips and doesn’t reply.

“Look for a renegade sorcerer, contact the Ban Ard Academy, maybe they’ll have some ideas, send you a list of expelled yet talented pupils. You have to get through Roggeveen’s old acquaintances, there’s a chance the two lists will overlap,” Geralt says, still looking at the photos.

Roche nods and still doesn’t say anything.

Geralt enlarges one picture and frowns.

“Roggeveen’s showing mercy now?”

Roche perks up.

“What do you mean?”

“All these people burned alive, you can see the agony on their faces,” Geralt points with his finger at the screen. “Carre was already dead when he burned. Snapped neck, from what I see.”

“How is it mercy?”

“Quick and as painless death as possible,” Geralt explains and leans back in the chair.

“Why would Roggeveen do that?”

“I don’t know, ask him when you meet him.”

“So you won’t go there to see the crime scene,” Roche sighs.

“No, because, as I said, it’s not my case. I’ve done my job. I have things to do here,” Geralt replies and stands up to pick up his suit jacket.

“And those things are my area of expertise, too, but you took over the Royals’ cases in Vizima,” Roche grumbles.

“Yeah, better not fuck it up,” Geralt drawls through his teeth and is gone from the room before Roche has a chance to reply.

* * *

Geralt steps into the flat, carefully closes the door behind him and turns the lock. He leans against the door and takes a couple of deep breaths. He can hear the TV in the living room. He knows Ciri likes to do her homework with some background noise, and the nature film about the fauna of Skellige — which is apparently on — seems like a typical choice.

_Fuck, Roggeveen is free._

“Is that you, dad?” Ciri calls from the room.

“Yeah,” he calls back and hates how his voice breaks on that one syllable.

She hears it, too, because then the TV is muted and she steps into the hallway, looking at him with a frown.

“What is it?” she asks, visibly worried.

Geralt hesitates. He’s tempted to lie, tell her he’s tired after the committee work, but he can’t. He can’t do it to her.

So he tells her the truth about Roggeveen’s escape.

“But they’re working on it, right? The Royals, the Redanians?” she asks as she makes him a regular tea. She’s forbidden to get anywhere near his special concoction, and he doesn’t need it now anyway.

“Yeah,” he replies, sitting at the kitchen table, his head propped on his left hand. He watches her moving in the kitchen, set on her task; what she does is simple, it’s something he’d do for her if their roles were reversed.

“Whatever you feel like saying right now, even if I know exactly what it will be, if it makes you feel better: just say it,” Ciri tells him and puts the mug of the tea in front of him.

He stares at her.

She’s standing there, leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed, ashen hair in a braid, makeup removed, his amazing sixteen-year-old adopted daughter, his destiny.

“I love you, you know that?” he blurts out. She smiles and her eyes look a bit damp. “Don’t ever doubt it. Whatever happens, you’re the most important person in my life, and I want you to be safe. So please, be careful.”

It’s probably exactly what she’s expected.

“I’ll do my best,” she replies and walks around the table to him. “And I know you will too.”

He gathers her into his arms, her fitting into them just like when she was ten, and they sit there, not talking, with Ciri on his lap, hugging him, while his tea gets cold.

* * *

“I can’t stop the works,” Aubry’s voice carries from behind the column in the hall outside the committee room during a short break the next day. The man talks in a hushed tone that would be inaudible for a human; Geralt stays by the door, pretending to be busy with his phone, seemingly at a safe distance, but while the general population is aware that witchers possess abilities allowing them to fight monsters, a very low number of people knows that one of these abilities are sharper senses. Geralt can hear hair growing from a metre away if he focuses. Now he’s more interested in their main racist’s phone call.

“This is going too far, nobody is even listening to me. This filthy abomination, the witcher, has more to say than me. It has to end. We need to find a way to get rid of him.”

Geralt grits his teeth.

“I’ve been looking for you, Mister Haute,” Anaïs La Valette’s voice shakes him from his focus. Geralt forces himself to relax, makes sure his pupils are round when he turns from his phone screen. The interruption doesn’t matter. He has to figure out a way to dig deeper into Aubry’s interests.

“Your Highness,” Geralt nods. Anaïs gestures to the window nearby. When they get there, out of the way so they don’t block the door, the woman asks:

“How’s your investigation?”

“Slowly going forward,” Geralt admits, looking at the Princess.

Anaïs is short: she reaches lower than Yen, but then she doesn’t wear high heels. Her light brown hair is braided, she’s wearing good quality, elegant but simple clothes; the kind that looks cheap but probably cost Geralt’s monthly salary, if not more. Her dark eyes are focused and friendly.

“Hopefully faster than the conspiracy to kill us,” Anaïs says in a hushed tone, but she smiles at the same time. She’s not concerned.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Geralt assures her.

“I know you are. There’s a small personal matter I wanted to discuss with you; I didn’t have the chance to do so before,” Anaïs admits and suddenly she loses some of her royal air. She becomes a concerned twenty-seven-year-old woman, not a princess eager to cement some positive changes in the country which throne she may inherit, and who’s at risk of losing her life because of her beliefs.

“What is it, Your Highness?” Geralt asks politely.

“It’s about Princess Adda,” Anaïs admits.

Ah, yes, the striga princess. One of the most famous monster hunts any witcher has ever done.

According to the rumours, Adda the White was the daughter of King Foltest and his sister. The baby and her mother died in labour, both were buried in the old family crypt, revered and mourned, but the King already had a mistress at the time, baroness Maria La Valette, a rich widow, with whom he had two children, twins Anaïs and Boussy. Then, a few years later, a monster started to hunt around the crypt: a striga. It turned out that the King’s and his sister’s girl had been cursed. Some people were eager to pay him good money to get rid of the monster, but when the King’s men found out that Geralt was involved, they approached him and suggested he try to lift the curse first.

He succeeded, almost losing his life in the process. A few weeks later, while he was still recuperating in Ellander, the Edict was heralded, welcoming witchers into the Temerian society, equaling the laws of elder races with those of humans and restricting magic even further than it was already at that point, except some very specific uses. The King called it a celebration of the new Royal Family member: Princess Adda. Geralt had nothing against the Edict — at least his name wasn’t mentioned in the reasons for it. A lot of people knew it had been him who had lifted the curse, anyway.

Princess Adda lived for fourteen years afterwards, under the care of the court medics, before finally succumbing to a neural degenerative illness Geralt had warned the King of before going into the crypt. Geralt wasn’t at her funeral — he picked up orphaned Ciri from Cintra the very same weekend.

“I know my father would never admit it, but during the last years of Adda’s life, he wondered whether lifting the curse was the right thing to do,” Anaïs admits, looking out the window at the Ismena River, flowing slowly towards Pontar. “Watching her losing the thin threads of connection to the world… it was painful. I know he wondered whether it would be better if she had died that night.”

“She was given fourteen years of kind-of normal life,” Geralt protests softly. He doesn’t mind that his efforts to keep the Princess and himself alive are now considered a waste of time. “She was quite independent, as far as I remember? Not fully mentally capable, but…”

“She was like a five-year-old child most of that time, able to take care of her hygiene, eating on her own, following simple conversations, yes.”

“And when she died nobody mentioned that she used to be a monster. People forgot about it.”

“Mostly, yes,” Anaïs replies and looks at him with wide, almost pleading eyes.

“If I killed her then, that would be the only thing people would remember about her, that she had been a striga and that she had killed people. She died fourteen years later as a human being, with her dignity back, and it’s one of the most important things, even if she wasn’t fully aware of it.”

Anaïs stares at him, her eyes wide and shining.

“You know dignity?” she asks.

“I’m old, Your Highness,” Geralt replies with a soft smile. “I was your age when my home was destroyed, for most of my life I was called a monster, and it was your father’s Edict that forced people to consider me human.”

“So, who knows dignity better than the person who got it back long years after he lost it?” Anaïs asks with a soft smile. “Thank you, witcher. I think we’re needed back inside.”

* * *

“So, what’s your plan?” Rience asks as he hands Vilgefortz a cup of pretty decent coffee.

Their stay in the ruins starts to look better than Vilgefortz has thought. The cave is warm, comfortably furnished, whatever Rience has done to the magic that isolated this place after the battle doesn’t bother him; he can hear the sounds of electric appliances: a fridge and a lamp. He knows there’s a corrupted place of Power in the nearby tunnels; easy access to that would help with the spells to restore his sight, but the corruption will make them unpredictable. He has to be careful, but that’s a thing for later.

“Destroy Geralt Haute,” Vilgefortz replies, sighs as the coffee warms him from the inside. He leans back in the armchair standing by the table.

“Who is he?”

Vilgefortz would glare if he could.

“The man who destroyed me. It’s only fair to return the favour.”

“Really?” Rience snorts. “You could be anywhere in the world and you stayed in Temeria to make life difficult for some police officer?”

“NOT make life difficult,” Vilgefortz roars. There’s a hint of fear in the air now. _Good._ “DESTROY.”

Rience clears his throat.

“How do you want to do that?” he asks, uncertain.

“I’ll give you some of my old contacts in Vizima and access to the bank accounts that the law enforcement didn’t find,” Vilgefortz replies, much calmer now. “Find out Haute’s weak points. I know he has a daughter, we may want to use that. Find out what he’s doing now, his cases, and try to get involved in them. Find his every little dirty secret. He’s a non-human, so he’s vulnerable.”

Vilgefortz pauses, takes a deep breath, taking in the smell of the cave they’re in.

“He reduced me to this,” he continues and takes a sip of his coffee. “We’ll make his life a living hell.”

There’s a soft chuckle from Rience: the man is going to enjoy this.

“Also, I’ll need your help to summon Gaunter O’Dimm,” Vilgefortz adds. “He may be of help since we can’t move around too freely, and he still owes me.”

* * *

Roggeveen’s escape hit the news by the end of the committee hearing. Borders are closed, security at the airports tightened, magic detectors set up all across Temeria to look for surges of magic that portals require. Geralt is sure only the last part makes any sense, but it also doesn’t guarantee to deliver any clues.

The members of the committee know Geralt is a police officer; he can feel their stares on him. They probably imagine he should get up and run to look for Roggeveen, but he’s determined to avoid their gazes and he looks at either his notes or Anaïs while trying to figure out how to word his request to the Attorney General for a search warrant on Aubry.

The tension in the room becomes too annoying for him after a while, though. Constant fidgeting and stares grate on his nerves.

“Other people are working on this, the Royal Investigative Force, mainly,” he snaps. “I’m more needed here. Can’t give Mister Aubry the satisfaction of getting rid of me.” He gives Aubry a toothy smile.

Aubry scoffs. Anaïs smiles, trying to hide it behind her hand.

This time it’s Countess Anna Kameny who talks the most; she suggests removing the non-human registration requirement or at least to not put it in the Constitution, but have it regulated in separate acts if necessary.

“The registration is obligatory for post-Edict immigrants; human-like individuals already resided in Temeria at that time and their neighbours were none the wiser,” she says. “So either we force every non-human to register, no matter how long they’ve lived in Temeria, and believe me, it won’t make them happy, or remove that requirement altogether, as it may be seen as discriminating.”

The suggestion is interesting coming from a human and Geralt both readily agrees and takes a closer look at the Countess, trying to figure out whether the woman has personal reasons for such a progressive notion. Aubry is, of course, terrified about the prospect of nobody knowing the species affiliation of potentially very dangerous creatures. The discussion goes for a half an hour, but that’s about how long the distraction from Roggeveen works.

Soon, they realise continuing the debate is pointless; Anaïs decides to finish for today, but promises to return to Countess Kameny’s suggestion in the next session, for now concluding that human-like individuals won’t be forced to reveal their species if they don’t wish to. Who exactly will be included in the said category is up to lawmakers to figure out while writing the proper act.

Geralt isn’t entirely satisfied with this solution, the Countess’ idea sparking some enthusiasm, but officially he’s more of a consultant than a lobbyist, so he can’t speak too loudly. Aubry would happily throw away all non-humans from the country despite the often-cited positive influence multiculturalism has on everyday Temerian life.

The tension within the committee doesn’t help with Geralt’s ongoing investigation. Currently, the circle of suspects is narrowed down to influential racists, like Aubry, and his phone call before the session only confirmed Geralt’s suspicions. Geralt decides to look into Countess Kameny’s security; the rest of the committee members aren’t as liberal as her: they’re open to discussion and respectful, but their role is limited to agreeing or disagreeing, they don’t come forward with their suggestions, hence they’re not in any danger because of their beliefs.

When they pack up their notes, Geralt notices that the Countess glances at him with a soft smile. He nods to her and turns to leave, but Anaïs stops him on his way.

“My father just texted me that due to the danger from Roggeveen and whoever has helped him, he will lift some of the magic restrictions,” she says.

Geralt raises his brows.

“The magic usage will be limited to police work in a way relevant to ongoing investigations, and will be allowed from midnight today,” the Princess continues and then gives him a wry smile. “Please tell your colleagues that getting confessions by magic is still strictly forbidden.”

“We’ll keep that in mind, thank you,” he says.

She nods at him, then they both leave the conference room.

Geralt rides his bike to the station; he still has some work to do. There are still some people on the Homicide Dept’s floor, but Triss and Eskel are gone already. He sends Triss a text with the magic restrictions news, in reply he gets some emojis that suggest she’s happy. Geralt can see that Vesemir is still in his office, but it doesn’t matter. He boots up his computer, puts his notes on his desk and goes to make his tea: he needs some energy, even though his current irritation level requires a cigarette, not witcher-style caffeine.

As he waits for the kettle to finish boiling the water for his tea, he remembers that Regis wants him to quit smoking since they spend more time together. _Of the two kinds of destructive behaviours I may display while pissed off, this one is less costly_ , Geralt said one time and gods, then there was a Discussion. _Let me vent it somewhere!,_ he argued. _Sure, there’s the third way, but I don’t always have time for angry sex and you’re not always available when I need it_. That one didn’t end well, either.

Tension like this means he and Regis avoid touchy subjects and start giving each other more space. They’ll get over it in a few days, but with Roggeveen on the loose, situations like this are more likely to happen again. Geralt knows that he and Regis will survive this, so he’s not worried.

Roggeveen’s escape angers him. He knows he has a problem believing that other people can handle a case like this, but he really can’t split into two to deal with it and the threats against the King.

The kettle clicks, Geralt pours the water over the leaves of his regular tea. He notices he’s running out. He doesn’t have time or energy to go looking for herbs in the forests around the city, so it’s time to visit the herbalist by the Maribor Gate. 

Vesemir leaves his office soon after Geralt settles down by his desk.

“How do you write a request for a search warrant on a lobbyist?” Geralt murmurs.

“You know von Everec well enough to not have to worry about it. You don’t write the warrant itself, do you?” Vesemir says with a smirk.

“Still, can’t motivate it with ‘he’s a racist asshole’.”

Vesemir snickers.

“Hey, remember Adon?” Geralt asks before Vesemir can leave. “Dark hair, older than me, speaking with a clear east Temerian accent, went by Carre.”

“Yes, a decent one,” Vesemir nods. “Rarely visited Kaer Morhen after his going out to the Path, but sent a letter every year or two to let us know he’s alive.”

“Visited often enough to remember me,” Geralt murmurs and looks back at the screen.

“Geralt, you were the only teenager with white hair, and your abilities made you stick out in the crowd. Adon avoided the students whenever he came to the keep, but it was really hard to not remember you. You were a sensation.”

Geralt purses his lips. He never liked the attention he was given when he was growing up. He’s still sticking out in the crowd but there’s little he can do to change it, apart from dyeing his hair, and he’s not vain enough to do that.

“Add to that the thing with the striga and the Edict that followed…” Vesemir adds and pauses when Geralt lets out an involuntary growl. “Why are you asking?” he wonders, trying — and failing — to hide his smile. The Edict is always a touchy subject for Geralt.

“He worked for the Royals, helped us in Gors Velen. Died in the convoy.”

Geralt knows Vesemir likes to keep track of other Wolf Witchers if he can. There aren’t many of them left and Geralt knows they all feel like members of a dying species.

“I see,” Vesemir says. “Well. Good luck with the warrant,” he adds and pats Geralt’s right shoulder on his way out.

 _That’s Vesemir for you,_ he thinks, watching his acting-father’s back. Caring about them, but not dwelling on the fact they’re all mortals: they will all die one day. At least Adon’s death was quite honourable. It’s still a loss of a good man.

Geralt sighs and returns his attention to his text file. He hates writing when it requires some kind of creative thinking. He’s good at writing reports: they’re to the point and detailed. Dandelion is the one to provide flair for writing. Twenty-five years of knowing the guy and that still hasn’t rubbed off on him.

Geralt sighs and gets to work. It’s not his first time after all.

* * *

Vilgefortz hopes the detectors are set on portals. Most magic portals are the same, using a similar frequency. The power used for everything else is different and depends on the act. A fireball will have a different frequency; telepathy will be different.

What Vilgefortz plans to use his magic for is so unique he hopes no-one will find out.

But it works, for now. Vilgefortz can orient himself better in the cavern Rience brought him to. He knows where the table is, the armchair, the bed; the pantry with an old door, opposite to the entrance to the cave. He knows there’s a circle of large rocks at the centre of the cavern, with furniture set between the circle and the walls; the centre of the circle is empty and flat, perfect for his purposes. That’s what he knows for now: he can’t read, he doesn’t know light or dark, but he can “see” shapes, smaller and more detailed the more he focuses. It’s tiring, though, so he stays in one place when he can, and rests.

He can work it out. He’s not helpless.

That night, which he recognises by the drop of temperature, Rience returns with a set of very interesting news, gathered from Vilgefortz’s old acquaintances in Vizima.

Vilgefortz is very happy to hear about the committee at the castle and the threats against the King’s life. The increasing activity of racists also works in his favour. He knows what the conspirators need: funding, inconspicuous people and a scapegoat: preferably a non-human scapegoat.

“As for Haute’s dirty secrets… Have you heard what happened in Blaviken thirty years ago?” Rience asks, obviously smug.

“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” Vilgefortz replies, his tone level.

* * *

“Here we go again,” Ciri sighs as she enters the Homicide Dept floor in the main Vizima Police station. Geralt is hunched over the keyboard, typing furiously and squinting at the monitor. His tea mug is empty. “I thought you were allowed only light work?”

“I’m not running anywhere now, am I?” Geralt replies as he glances at her.

Ciri crosses her arms on her chest and raises an eyebrow at him.

“I need a warrant and a proper reason to get it, better than ‘I overheard one side of a phone conversation’ or ‘the person of interest is a blatant racist’,” Geralt explains.

“Can’t you figure it out tomorrow?”

Geralt huffs. He’d love to, but he’d rather push his main case forward, start arresting people, then move onto Roggeveen. The Roggeveen case is far too difficult to turn away from and he can’t take part in two big investigations at the same time. Also, Aubry sounded determined enough, so Geralt wants him off the scene as soon as possible, and that will happen only if they find anything interesting at Aubry’s home.

“Come on, Geralt, let’s go home,” Ciri whines when she doesn’t get his immediate reply.

“That’s your role in our household, isn’t it,” Geralt sighs as he turns off his computer. “Getting me home.”

“And I perform it with pride,” Ciri says and smiles widely at him.

Geralt walks behind her on the way to the stairs, grabs her by the neck with one hand and shakes her playfully.

Ciri’s idea turns out to be good, though, as the next day Geralt arrives at work with a fresh approach towards his problem and a large supply of his tea. The request for the search warrant is written within half an hour, then Geralt takes it to the Attorney General’s office to get the warrant; he returns before noon and gives the paper to Triss, telling her he can’t participate in that, given his connection to Aubry. Then he takes his backpack and goes to another hearing of the committee at the Castle, using his best Gwent face to not warn Aubry about what will happen in the evening.

* * *

“Do we have any idea where Roggeveen is?” Roche asks through the conference call with Sigismund Dijkstra. He can see Philippa Eilhart in the background, packing some things, so he knows that both Redanian agents are in her Oxenfurt office.

Roche himself is in a room the Attorney General’s office provided him for the time being. He has a desk here, the internet connection and is only a few steps away from the coffee machine; he’s fine for now. He knows he will probably relocate to the Castle soon: he won’t let anyone send him back to Gors Velen, not before the case is finished.

Dijkstra, visible on Roche’s computer screen, shakes his head.

“He must be somewhere heavily shielded,” Philippa says from behind her desk, looking for something in a low drawer. The camera on their side is aimed at the person who is supposed to sit at the desk, but Dijkstra has moved to the side to not disturb Philippa, so Roche sees only a part of his face and Philippa constantly walking in and out of shot.

“We know he landed in southern Temeria,” Bernard “Thaler” Ducat says, stepping behind Roche into his boss’ camera’s range. The agent knows Vizima like the back of his hand and is more friendly with Geralt Haute than Roche, so Vernon called him to come. “Are there places that could be shielded without us knowing?”

“The first place that comes to mind is Mealybug Moors, it’s so saturated with corrupted magic that it can hide Roggeveen’s magic aura, but I don't know whether Roggeveen would hide in a swamp full of monsters,” Philippa replies.

“No, he likes a comfortable life and dry places too much,” Dijkstra protests, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Mahakam?” Roche suggests.

“Depending on the dwarves' opinion on sorcerers,” Philippa says and shrugs. “They weren't fans last time I heard.”

“Roggeveen is rich, with a good bribe he would hide in some mine for years and we wouldn't know,” Dijkstra points out.

“And the dwarves wouldn’t tell,” Roche sighs.

“I still don’t think Roggeveen is in Mahakam,” Philippa says. “Too deeply underground, too many people who can reveal his whereabouts. No, he’s isolated, but accessible from the outside.”

“And shielded. Great. So we have no way of knowing. It’s been two days and we don’t know jack shit. Who the fuck helped him escape—” Dijkstra starts.

“We’re working on it,” Thaler and Philippa say at the same time.

“—where the fuck is he and what he’s planning,” Dijkstra finishes.

“Listen. The situation in Temeria is vulnerable enough,” Philippa sighs. “Whatever Roggeveen does, it will be to escalate trouble. Your biggest problem is someone threatening to kill Foltest? Then focus on that, because that’s where Roggeveen will reveal himself.”

Thaler glances at Roche. They both nod and end the call.

* * *

Triss gets a feeling of déjà vu when she, Eskel and a couple of officers from their department knock on Aubry’s door and his wife, Rosalinda, opens it. The woman reacts about the same Petra Silie, Vilgefortz Roggeveen’s personal assistant, did in Gors Velen weeks earlier: she’s defensive, annoying and her voice is unpleasant when it’s raised in protest.

Aubry is not Roggeveen, though. He’s shocked and can’t hide it. He wants to stall them, make them wait for his attorney, but they’re too experienced to allow him. Eskel and the officers start their search while Triss busies herself with some papers lying on the table in the living room.

Anzelm Aubry tries to oversee what the policemen are doing. Rosalinda sits at the table, drinking tea and silently fuming.

“I’m sure it’s this witcher’s fault, the one who is in my husband’s committee,” she murmurs to no-one in particular. Triss knows the woman is aware that Triss can hear her, so she turns to Rosalinda and raises her eyebrow. “It’s obviously hard for him to handle some truth about the role of non-humans in society, and he has the power to use it against my husband. Very unprofessional.”

Triss grits her teeth and continues reading the papers. She glances up and sees that the officers have secured Aubry’s laptop.

“I mean, why the police would hire a witcher, I don’t understand,” Rosalinda continues. “What do they have as an advantage over a man, or even an elf? Political correctness is going to be the fall of our civilisation.”

“Oh, they absolutely got hired only because they’re non-humans,” Triss can’t stop herself from saying, feigning cheerfulness, still looking down at the papers. “Or maybe it’s their tracking and fighting skills, and their age and experience, as contracts for a monster often require some kind of detective work. Oh, and then there’s their law knowledge. But sure, political correctness.”

Rosalinda looks at her, eyes wide. Triss returns the look, her face impassive.

“It’s obvious he sent you here, that officer Haute. As a human, don’t you have any issues by being ordered around by him?” Rosalinda asks.

“No. He’s a good detective, a good leader and I deeply respect his skills.”

“What makes him so good, hmm, officer Merigold?” Rosalinda asks, condescending.

“For one, it took him only two days to find the vampire that hunted in the city two savaeds ago. And before you say that two people were killed before that, you have no idea how many lives he saves every year without anyone knowing it.”

“I still miss the old times, when Vizima was human,” Rosalinda says, emphasising on the last word. “All those foreign faces and being aware there might be monsters among the pedestrians, merchants, teachers… it makes me shudder.”

Triss decides she has enough. She’s thought Anzelm was a racist, but his wife is just as bad.

“You do realise that racist remarks are punishable by fee?” she snaps.

Rosalinda looks at her, eyes wide.

“I'm just making conversation,” she defends.

Triss doesn’t care about professionalism and hiding her emotions now: she rolls her eyes and puts the papers she has no energy to read now in the cardboard box marked ‘evidence’ that she put by the table at the beginning of the search.

“We’re not friends, Mrs Aubry,” she says, her tone sharp. “I'm a police officer on a warranted search in your and your husband’s house because of the remarks he made regarding the racial politics of our King. All that was said here will make it into my report.”

“We’re done here,” Eskel announces as he removes the latex gloves.

“I’m not, but it can wait,” Triss replies and stands up. “We’ll stay in touch, Mrs, Mr Aubry,” she adds, takes the box and leaves the house after Eskel, followed by the two officers.

Once outside, she takes a deep breath.

“Those walls are breathing hate,” she murmurs.

“It’s good they have no idea I’m a witcher, too,” Eskel replies, just as quietly. “I’ve heard Mrs Aubry. You should’ve let her talk a little bit longer.”

Triss sighs.

“I know, but people like this make me sick; they have all the money in the world and think they’re superior to everyone else. I’m Temerian, for gods’ sake. The Edict was the best that could have happened to this country, even with the magic restrictions.”

Eskel smiles and pats her back on the way to the cars.

* * *

Anzelm Aubry watches through his office’s window as the police officers get into their cars and drive away. He’s seething with hate, almost shaking with it.

These people used their authorisation to invade his privacy, based only on Haute’s hatred towards him. He just knows that Haute, even absent from the search, was directly involved in this humiliation. It’s an attack against the freedom of speech, one of the basic laws in a democratic country! How could that witcher face him today, pretending that nothing was about to happen! How could he ignore Anzelm’s influence and position in society!

He hears something, a movement behind his back, so he turns abruptly. He expects his wife: he’s last seen her pouring a glass of wine in the living room downstairs, but he sees a stranger instead: a middle-aged, medium-height man, with tanned skin, black eyes and very short, dark hair. The man’s dressed in a black business suit; he keeps his hands in front of him, connected by his fingertips.

“Mister Aubry, my employer has heard about your little initiative in influencing Temerian internal politics,” the man says, his voice calm and deep.

“Who are you?” Aubry gasps.

“My name is Gaunter O’Dimm, and I’m here to tell you I have enough power to help you with your little endeavour. We just need some information.”

Aubry relaxes.

“What kind of information?”

The man smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rience provides a little bit of a distraction for the law enforcement in Vizima. (in other words: Things start to Happen.)

The next morning, Geralt finds Eskel and Triss reading the papers and computer files from Aubry’s house. Eskel looks fresh as ever; Triss developed bags under her eyes after only one sleepless night. Geralt takes a second to listen to their heartbeats: both elevated, so there’s probably little blood in the caffeine circulating in their vascular systems.

“How is it going?” he asks.

“If you were here to read it like you were probably supposed to, you’d know,” Triss mumbles, stifling a yawn.

“I have children to return home for,” Geralt quips and ignores the irritated looks Eskel and Triss send him.

“Everything looks innocent enough,” Eskel says and shows Geralt his computer screen with some bank records. “Some money transfers to charities, all fine and noble, but two of the five charities that Aubry supports are under investigation, suspected of supporting havekars in the past.”

Geralt whistles.

“The other three?”

“Have very racist chairmen.”

“And among the papers is an invitation to a business meeting, only…” Triss starts and gives Geralt a sheet of paper.

“Only that company is known for financing havekars, great,” Geralt finishes for her, reading from the paper.

“Nothing was proven, mind,” Triss says. “That investigation is still ongoing.”

“Yeah, and one of Roggeveen’s bogus companies did some business with them a few years back,” Geralt remembers. “Apparently Aubry is not only racist but also stupid.”

“You know, he can easily say that it doesn’t prove anything,” Eskel says as he leans back in his chair. “Havekars can’t be directly connected to the assassination plot.”

“But they’re always the first-to-go allies in things like this. They’re connected to extremists, it’s just two quick steps between potential assassins and Aubry. He’s practically their political front now.”

“So the CEOs of these companies and charities are racist and conservative, but they wouldn’t dare to try and kill the King, how can we imply that???” Eskel mocks.

“But we can. I bet I don’t even have to talk to von Everec to get a warrant to tap Aubry’s phones and have a team to watch his workplace and home,” Geralt says. “That indirect connection to Roggeveen makes it even more interesting.”

“You know your connection to von Everec will play against you both one day,” Eskel murmurs.

“You think it’s not enough?” Geralt asks, pointing at Eskel’s screen with his hand.

Eskel looks at the screen; his lips form a thin line.

“I think it’s more than enough. I can talk to the Attorney General if you’re worried von Everec acts on his sympathies towards Geralt,” Triss suggests. “Hey, we’re moving forward,” she adds when Eskel’s frown doesn’t disappear. “We may not have a solid suspect, only a potential witness, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Yeah, of course,” Eskel shakes his head.

Geralt remembers that Eskel tends to lose confidence when he’s faced with a complicated intrigue. It’s a safe approach, making him very thorough in his investigations. He’ll look for more evidence until he’s sure his case is watertight.

Hunting monsters is much more straightforward. Eskel is good with Signs and his hunts are quick. Geralt is probably the best curse-lifter of their lot, as curses often require some investigation and thinking out of the box; thanks to that, in the police work Geralt doesn’t have problems with following circumstantial evidence. He’s defended his cases often enough to be the detective of choice for less obvious investigations. Eskel is great at his job, both as a detective and a witcher, but Geralt’s loose cannon approach works in his favour, too.

Vesemir knows this the best. He was the one who chose Geralt as the lead of the threats against the Royal Family case, and Geralt still recovering from the torture at Roggeveen’s hands hadn’t been the deciding factor.

* * *

“I’ve called some of my friends in Vizima,” Rience announces as he enters Vilgefortz’s cave. Vilgefortz is sitting cross-legged in the middle of a rune circle at the centre of the floor, between the rocks; the lines made of chalk are glowing white. He keeps his hands hanging loosely from his knees, his eyes are closed; only his lips move slightly with the whispered spells.

“They can keep an eye on Haute and look for more blackmail material; I’d rather not have them deal with Aubry, because the man is the worst conspirator imaginable, and Bonhart’s short-tempered enough to snap his neck during the first meeting,” Rience continues as he walks outside the stone circle towards the fridge; he checks whether it needs restocking, but it seems like Vilgefortz is barely eating anything when he’s on his own.

“O’Dimm talks to Aubry,” Vilgefortz says. The circle stops glowing; the man opens his milky eyes and stands up slowly, with grace. “He’s far more patient, can teleport freely, and his magic is undetectable.”

Rience fidgets on his feet as he watches Vilgefortz walk slowly towards the kitchen area.

“One of your old employees left a message in the contact box in Gors Velen,” he says. “He suggests creating a website to put our side of the news there.”

“What for?” Vilgefortz asks and drinks some of the tea that’s waiting for him, cooling on the counter.

“You want to discredit Haute, it’s one of the ways to go,” Rience shrugs. “It’s cheap and easy, and set up properly can cause him quite a lot of trouble in law enforcement. We can do all the other evils you want us to, but a website would be helpful.”

“Fine,” Vilgefortz waves his hand. “Just make sure the police won’t be able to detect the source.”

“That guy seemed to know what he was talking about.”

Vilgefortz hums and drinks more of the tea.

“Also, he seemed very loyal to you,” Rience adds with some hesitation.

“Probably for a good reason. Should I ask you why are you here?” Vilgefortz replies and turns to Rience.

The man fidgets some more and rubs the counter with his fingers, not looking at his boss.

“How much time do we have?” he asks after a pause. “What’s the main objective in… whatever you want to do?”

“For now we’re gathering information,” Vilgefortz replies as he picks up an apple from the fruit basket. “Then we’ll decide how to use it. I might need you to relocate to Vizima, as I don’t trust your people to handle the situation on their own.”

“How long are you going to be holed up here?” Rience asks with a note of impatience. “What’s the endgame?”

“Either watch Haute burn or draw him here,” Vilgefortz drawls through his teeth and bites into the apple. The act is aggressive somehow.

“Well, if you need me in Vizima and I can’t be in two places at the same time: sorry to say, but you need someone here.”

Vilgefortz purses his lips. The juice from the apple dribbles down his chin, he wipes at it almost immediately.

“Call Straggen; I trust him more than your lot.”

“And for good reason,” Rience agrees.

Vilgefortz raises his eyebrow.

“Why won’t you just get rid of the ones you don’t trust?” he asks.

“I want to know what drives him. There’s always time for a bullet to the head or third-degree burns on the whole body.”

* * *

Going to a school that has sorceresses as the headmistress and at least two teachers means that no-one asks Ciri any questions when her eyes turn blank in the middle of the lesson, and then she excuses herself and runs out of the building, barely remembering to take her belongings with her.

She knows there will be some minor consequences: her absence will be marked in the school register and one of her parents will be notified. Since she left during Margarita Laux-Antille’s lesson, she can expect an inquiring message from Yen, as both are sorceresses and good friends, so the teacher would contact her mother, as usual when the matter is magic-related. Ciri lives with Geralt, who has full custody over her, but Yen is also listed as an emergency contact in her school file. Ciri knows it will change soon, as Yen has started the process of moving her company to Vengerberg.

Geralt would find out about her little excursion, too, sooner or later, but she can’t worry about it, not now.

She’s drawn to the Chameleon. She’s conscious enough to ride her bicycle there, not go on foot. It’s noon, she really should be at school and she has no idea what she will find in the familiar inn.

She doesn’t barge in, doesn’t announce her arrival. The inn is mostly empty, a few dwarvish workers doing maintenance, nobody pays her any mind. She hides in the shadow, looking at Geralt’s favourite spot in the back of the main room.

He’s there, the short white hair living its own life; the dark blue jeans, long-sleeved grey t-shirt, boots, the leather jacket. Dandelion is there, too, with an unfamiliar, pretty, blond human-looking woman; she can also see two men she doesn’t recognise, one human, the other halfling. The latter is talking, Geralt is listening, his face serious but calm.

_He’s there, he’s safe. He’s fine. We’ll see each other at home today._

She doesn’t want to explain why she isn’t at school. Just seeing him in this familiar setting calms her down, suppresses the dread she felt mere moments ago.

She turns and leaves before Geralt can notice her.

* * *

The story of how Dudu brought Chappelle to Vizima is worth being put in a book. Dudu barely managed to cross the border before it was closed, then it took two days for Chappelle to prepare to leave Novigrad. Dudu managed to smuggle Chappelle through the border back to Temeria using his trade contacts; there might have been involved some hiding in a cargo train and a tiny bribe. The first thing they did after crossing the border in Acorn Bay was to go to the border guard station and file papers for political asylum for Chappelle, then they travelled straight to Vizima.

Dudu brings Chappelle to Vizima on one of the rare maintenance days in the Chameleon. Usually, it’s reserved for fixing appliances and furniture, and some minor repaintings of the walls; the inn isn’t open to the public. This time, too, the team of Ren Grouver’s dwarves is hard at work in the main hall, as Dandelion, Geralt, the new mistress of Dandelion’s heart: singer Priscilla, and the two dopplers occupy their favourite lounge; it’s private and out of the way. Regis wanted to come, too, but he has a shift at the hospital, so there’s only five of them, eating stew and drinking beer.

“Thanks a lot for letting me stay here,” says Chappelle, now in a halfling form. “I never thought I’d have to leave my home in such a movie-like manner.”

“But now you’re here,” Dandelion says pompously like he’s been the one who smuggled Chappelle through the border. “You can start a new life.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at his friend’s tone.

“Now I have to make myself useful to such a welcoming country,” Chappelle admits.

“What do you mean?” Priscilla asks.

“I know what you do for a living and don’t think I don’t know what’s happened lately, about the threats and that rogue sorcerer,” Chappelle says to Geralt. “Maybe we could help somewhat?”

Geralt frowns.

“Like, how?”

“I don’t know, can’t you think of a role two shapeshifters can play against an assassination plot?” Chappelle asks with a raised eyebrow.

Dudu perks up.

“Oooh, it seems you didn’t have enough excitement lately!” they exclaim with a smile.

“You want to be involved in my investigation at the Castle? Are you out of your mind?”

Dandelion and Priscilla stare at them; Dandelion works very hard to not show he’s excited.

“Come on, I just proved I’m a capable doppler, and Chappelle here has survived in Novigrad for years. You can put it into use, we’re willing,” Dudu shrugs.

“I won’t be able to protect you and if something happens to you, I won’t forgive myself,” Geralt argues.

“We don’t need your protection. You think we don’t know what we’re getting into?”

“Yeah,” Geralt seethes.

The tension is broken by a chirp of Geralt’s phone in his pocket. Geralt ignores it.

“Come on, Geralt—” Dandelion starts.

“Shut up,” Geralt cuts him off.

“Listen, you don’t have to make the decision right now,” Dudu says with a hand raised in a placating gesture. “I just think that having two loyal spies could help you with the investigation,” they finish with a shrug.

Geralt’s phone chirps again. Geralt sighs.

“Fine, I’ll think about it,” he concedes.

Dandelion and Priscilla, Chappelle and Dudu glance at each other as Geralt checks what the chirp was about.

“Don’t look so fucking smug,” Geralt snaps, still looking at the screen.

His four friends force their faces to go neutral.

Geralt rolls his eyes at them and stands up.

“I’ll call you,” he says and leaves, checking his emails.

The message is from an unknown source. It’s a photo of the Ard Carraigh Police file from five years ago. The case was about a fire in some rich man’s house; the scorch marks suggested a dome made of fire in the house.

There are also photos of the suspect, who was identified as the sorcerer named Rience; he disappeared before the police got the chance to arrest him.

The email is signed with _‘ac’._

Geralt purses his lips. He thinks he knows who has sent him the files: the ‘c’ in the signature probably should have been uppercase.

Geralt saves the photos on his phone and then sends them to Roche, adding _I hope you’ll find it interesting._

Roche replies almost immediately:

_I thought you didn’t want to be involved._

Geralt rolls his eyes.

 _I thought you were able to turn off your asshole mode for five minutes,_ he types, sends it and puts the phone into his jacket pocket.

* * *

“How the hell did they find out,” Roche drawls through his teeth and leans back in his chair, staring at his computer screen. Thaler glances over Roche’s shoulder and looks at the single headline on the new, independent website:

_POSSIBLE INVOLVEMENT OF THE ESCORT MEMBER IN VILGEFORTZ ROGGEVEEN’S ESCAPE._

The article below reveals that the commander of the convoy, Adon Carre, died differently than the rest of his people. Further down the page, there are speculations that Carre was a witness and was killed as such once his role in the escape — possibly revealing the route of the convoy — ended. The “journalist” promised to look deeper into the case to provide more details.

“Where did they get that? Autopsy reports only started to come in,” Dijkstra says from the video feed in the upper left corner of Roche’s screen. The Temerians can see that he’s in a different office, darker, with a full bookshelf behind his back.

“I think we can safely assume that this was written by someone involved in Roggeveen’s escape,” Thaler suggests. “Rience saw Roggeveen snap Carre’s neck.”

“Let them write Carre was a witcher and then we’re in trouble,” Dijkstra murmurs. He sighs. “So we know it was Rience who helped Roggeveen? What do we know about him?”

“I’ve called Ard Carraigh Police and got the files the photo of which Geralt sent me earlier today. I think it’s pretty much confirmed, it’s a match with Eilhart’s description, the same MO. We don’t know his first name. He studied in Ban Ard for two years before he was expelled. Before that, he showed some talent in fire magic. If he got under Roggeveen’s wings shortly after he was expelled, he had time to master his power.”

“Ard Carraigh suggests he works on his own, as well,” Thaler points out. “Before we can even start looking in Roggeveen’s associates’ lists, we can safely assume we won’t find him there.”

“We need to release that to the national news and look for Rience’s associates and activity history,” Roche says. “Maybe Redania can help us with that.”

“Don’t worry, we will,” Dijkstra nods.

“We need to look into this website, find out their source. The news about Adon’s death is probably just the beginning, and it can get so much worse. Look.”

Roche puts a file with a text message on his screen:

_HE TOLD ME TO RESPECT THE SCUM. HE’S THE SCUM, DIRTY WITCHER!_

“It was taken from the mobile of one of the younger officers on the convoy, named Dysant,” Roche says.

“Was it sent out?” Dijkstra asks.

“No, there was no mobile phone signal during the flight, and for some reason, the kid didn’t send it after they landed. We don’t even know whom he wanted to send it to.”

“Carre told Dysant to respect Roggeveen?” Dijkstra asks with a scowl.

“To not underestimate him, most likely,” Thaler supplies. “I’ve dealt with Wolf Witchers often enough to know they’re sensible, and this Dysant kid didn’t have the best of reputations despite his good notes at the academy. This is another potential source of trouble if it leaks out.”

“I agree,” Roche murmurs. “I think we should talk to Haute again, to warn him. If they started by going after Carre, it’s not far before they go after witchers and Haute in particular.”

“And given Haute’s current investigation and political involvement…” Dijkstra shakes his head. “Listen, I’ve sent Philippa to Vizima. I couldn’t have kept her here anyway, I just hope you’ll allow her to help you.”

“We could use some more brainpower. I had to send Ves back to Gors Velen because someone has to be there, and she’ll look at Roggeveen’s files again, maybe she’ll find something. I think it’s time to get the warrant for Rience’s arrest.”

Dijkstra purses his lips and Roche knows very well what that means: they won’t catch Rience that way anyway. He agrees, but at least he feels like they’re doing something.

* * *

For the rest of the day, Geralt has to run some errands for his police work, talk to people connected to companies mentioned in Aubry’s files. Nobody wants to give him any useful information, of course. Triss has the same rate of success after talking to people on her list.

Later that day, Geralt decides to talk to Princess Anaïs in person about Dudu’s and Chappelle’s idea. As he walks through the Castle’s corridors towards Anaïs’ study, he catches sight of Thaler leaving the public wing, but the spy doesn’t notice him. He’s not surprised that the Royals got an office in the Castle; they don’t have a permanent station in Vizima and the police wouldn’t offer.

The conversation with the Princess lasts two hours; they finish by sunset. Geralt is disappointed when she agrees to consider adding Dudu and Chappelle to the investigation; he’d prefer she said no, instead she asks him to bring the dopplers to her office the next morning.

On his way home from the Castle, he thinks about Thaler. Thaler pretended to be a fence when they first met in La Valette ten years ago; Geralt was trying to solve a big case there. The man wasn’t the easiest to work with; Geralt had no idea that Thaler was the Royals’ agent on the same case, while Thaler was well aware that Geralt was the person who basically banished the Royals from Vizima. That hadn’t been, of course, Geralt’s decision, but it had been the consequence of both sides unwilling to collaborate during previous big cases in Vizima. In the end, Geralt and Thaler worked together pretty well; Thaler swallowed some of his pride and Geralt didn’t brag about being able to solve big crimes on his own. After La Valette, Geralt’s and Thaler’s professional relationship was much more predictable than Geralt’s and Roche’s. They work well together, and Thaler’s presence in the Castle suggests that they will, most likely, collaborate again.

Geralt decides to let go of the work-related worries for the night; he has to face some other problems once he steps through his flat’s door. He parks Roach in his usual spot and is surprised to feel a twinge of pain in his thigh. Apparently walking around the whole day is too much for his still-healing leg.

He knows Ciri skipped some classes today. She didn’t explain why when he asked her via text message but assured him she was fine. He wonders whether she’ll talk to him about it tonight.

She doesn’t; she seems absent, she barely talks and simply ignores his questions about today’s events. If she was bullied, she’d talk, but then she’s independent and strong enough to not be bothered by some “overgrown idiots” like she calls anyone who tries to bully her; it hasn’t happened for quite some time now, anyway.

She’s clingy, though. After supper, they settle in the living room for a movie. Geralt is happy to hug her anytime she wants and the feeling is reciprocated; right now it feels different, though. It’s not shoulder brushing while they sit side by side on the couch, or her head lying on his shoulder as she grows tired. This time she hugs him throughout the whole movie, being more interested in keeping her face close to his neck than what is happening on the screen. He hugs her back, of course, keeping his hand on her shoulder and rubbing her back from time to time. She squeezes him harder for a second every time his hand moves.

When the movie ends, she just bids him goodnight and goes to her bedroom. Geralt isn’t going to force her to say anything, but he’s worried. Last time she hid something from him was when she had trouble with Chemistry at school. This time it has to be something different. He hopes he’ll find out soon.

As he draws the curtains in the living room, he notices a dark van parked on the street. It’s dark inside, but with his enhanced eyesight he notices a man sitting in the driver’s seat. He sighs. It’s a problem for tomorrow.

* * *

The van is still there the next morning when Geralt leaves home for work after seven. Ciri’s still asleep, her classes beginning at nine.

This time, there’s no-one in the front seat of the van, but Geralt manages to catch some muffled voices from the back.

Geralt looks around, walks straight to the back door of the van and barges into the hold, meeting three pairs of eyes of the exasperated Royals’ agents.

Geralt squeezes in and closes the door. He sits cross-legged on the floor and leans against the door.

“Bernard Ducat a.k.a. Thaler, to what do I owe the pleasure of your interest?” he asks when he sees the familiar face.

Thaler, sitting between the front seats, swallows a spoonful of cereal.

“You’re working on the assassination plot against the King of Temeria, there’s a certain sorcerer that most likely wants to see you dead, you deal with the Royals’ level of cases in Vizima, and we tend to protect our own,” he says.

Geralt is slightly taken aback by the last declaration. He’s sure it’s not something Roche has told Thaler to say.

“I’m not on your paycheck list,” he protests. “Just because I kicked your lazy asses out of town, doesn’t mean I’m one of yours.”

“Oh, great, so we can go now?” one of the agents, sitting at the console along the side of the hold, cuts in cheerfully. Thaler shoots him a warning look, but the man only grins wider. Geralt suppresses a snort.

“Well, then maybe you are a potential witness,” Thaler tries. “Three days ago, someone tried to hack into our database looking for information about you and we — meaning the Royals and the Redanian Secret Service — think Roggeveen is past acting subtly.”

“Like he was ever subtle,” Geralt snorts. “So, are you here because of Roggeveen or the King?” Geralt asks.

“Roggeveen,” Thaler admits.

“Okay. One, you stick your asses to this place, you don’t follow me or my daughter anywhere. Do you understand?”

“Geralt…”

“No, you will not scare the shit out of my daughter, leave her alone. She knows what to do when she’s in danger.”

“Does she?”

“Yes,” Geralt hisses.

“You do realise you probably have a snitch at the station?” Thaler asks. “We looked deeper into some files on Roggeveen’s computer and the source comes from there.”

Geralt stares at him for three seconds.

“We still have no idea how many people worked for him,” he says slowly. “When I went after Roggeveen it wasn’t so obvious he had people there, only by the end of my investigation someone tried to kill Lambert, who was working on the drug side of the case,” he remembers.

“Eilhart said Roggeveen would lash out at you,” Thaler adds. “Just because he didn’t so far, doesn’t mean it’s not going to get hot pretty soon.”

Geralt nods solemnly, his lips pursed.

Thaler moves from his spot closer to Geralt, mirroring his posture. They look each other in the eyes.

“Haute, you’re a pain in the arse, Roche pretty much hates you, but you get the job done. Roggeveen knows that too. Be careful.”

“I know I said I don’t give a fuck,” Geralt murmurs, “but we both know that once the people behind the conspiracy against the King are revealed, you can expect my involvement in the search for Roggeveen.”

“A lot depends on whether that involvement will be friendly or not,” Thaler replies with a crooked smile. “Roggeveen will try to kill you. You want to piss Roche off by getting your fingers into his case? You need to stay alive.”

Geralt sees that the other two agents nod solemnly, their faces serious. They look like they know that Geralt is important here. It makes him feel better for some reason; maybe there are people he can still trust.

“Will do my best,” he promises, stands up and leaves the van, closing the door behind him.

* * *

“Nice little hideout,” Homer Straggen comments as he descends the tunnel to the cave. “Sorry I couldn’t get down here earlier, but you’re still alive, so it’s fine, I guess.”

Vilgefortz would roll his eyes if he could. He can see Straggen looking around — well, “see” is a relative word. He can detect him turning his head and taking a closer look at some of the furniture and the food laid out on the table.

“I’m bringing in some of my people if that’s alright, I can’t run errands from here.”

“Fine,” Vilgefortz sighs just to shut him up. He’s managed to forget Straggen can be annoyingly talkative.

“I’ve looked into those new magic restrictions,” Straggen continues and Vilgefortz wants to sigh again, but that would be overdramatic. “Magic can be used by the police in case of emergency. No mind control, though, and the magic use has to be sensibly justified. So, no teleporting or portalling freely, they still have detectors set for bursts of magic, especially on your or Rience’s frequency.”

Straggen plops on the armchair next to the couch Vilgefortz is occupying and stretches his legs.

“No information from our insider at the station?” Vilgefortz asks.

“Haute and his friends are busy with the papers they’ve found at Aubry’s, but most of the havekars he’d paid disappeared without a trace after your arrest, so only innocent charities are left.”

“Sooner or later they’ll find something. It won’t matter, but I think we should make their investigations a little bit harder for them.”

Straggen doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.

“Yeah. We’ve managed to tap into Haute’s phone,” he says finally. “I know it doesn’t matter anymore with Rience’s face all over the news, but he sent the Royals an old file about a murder Rience was involved in. We have no idea where did he get it from.”

“You’re saying we need to distract them?” Vilgefortz asks with raised eyebrows.

Straggen shrugs; Vilgefortz recognises it only by the sound his clothes make.

“I guess you’re right,” Vilgefortz nods. “They’ve waited long enough for our move, that thing with Carre was just an innocent beginning. Time to shake up the city. Carre said they’d burn my world? They should be careful so we won’t beat them to it.”

* * *

The meeting with Princess Anaïs is about as nerve-racking as a big monster hunt. Dudu and Chappelle, both in halfling form, are relaxed, almost happy to be here, while Geralt regrets even considering the dopplers’ idea.

Anaïs is very serious, though. She’s a good judge of character, so she watches the dopplers like a hawk while Geralt relates the plan: Dudu and Chappelle would impersonate the Castle’s guards and keep an eye on anything suspicious.

“I have to admit that they both have some experience in this kind of work,” he says.

“I can guess it wasn’t always legal,” Anaïs replies dryly.

“In a racist world one has to get by somehow,” Dudu shrugs with an innocent smile on their face. “I can promise you, though, that you have nothing to worry about from us. We want to help.”

“You risk a lot.”

“It’s worth it for a good cause,” Chappelle declares.

Geralt glares at him.

“Spent too much time with Dandelion already?” he mutters.

Anaïs chuckles.

“Well, Officer Haute, you wouldn’t be here if you thought it was an absolutely terrible idea,” she says, then turns serious. “I’m uncomfortable knowing I can’t fully trust my own guards so they have to be replaced by strangers, but if you trust your friends here…”

“I do,” Geralt nods. “They’re not strangers.”

Dudu and Chappelle become serious at this: they both know Geralt considers them friends, but to hear that he trusts them with something so important is a whole different matter.

“I have conditions, though,” Anaïs says. “The most important thing is no changing into myself or my father.”

“We wouldn’t dare, Your Highness,” Chappelle says.

“I will choose the people you are allowed to change into,” Anaïs continues. “I’m afraid most of the people that are allowed in various areas of the Castle are either human or elven men, but from what I know about dopplers, it’s probably not an issue.”

“Species, race or gender don’t matter, Your Highness,” Dudu says. “At least, not to me.”

“I see,” Anaïs replies slowly. “Officer Haute will take responsibility for your conduct,” she continues and Geralt nods. That wasn’t unexpected, he was about to suggest it himself. “And we need to find a way to distinguish you from the people you’ll be changing into. This whole plot will stay between us and my father, of course.”

“Nothing I would say no to,” Geralt says.

“Then it’s decided,” Anaïs nods and leans back in her chair. “Good thing there’s no committee session today, we have time to discuss the details and get our new guards settled.”

Geralt is happy about staying in the office for a little longer: he’s seen Aubry in the corridors and he doesn’t want to face the man after the raid on his home.

The lack of new clues after the raid — or maybe them hitting a wall after the initial excitement — is frustrating, so he hopes that Dudu and Chappelle can give him something, anything to get closer to the assassination plot. Old contacts don’t mean Aubry is actively supporting anyone, the lobbyist can always excuse himself with the lack of knowledge.

He tries to be up to date with the search for Roggeveen, but other than the website that has insider info and uses it to discredit members of the convoy, everything’s quiet. It can only get worse, the silence feels like calm before the storm.

The speculations that Carre knew about Roggeveen’s escape plan anger Geralt. Carre didn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve still being a body in a morgue fridge, he should be buried, preferably in a witcher ritual. Instead, his burnt and broken body is still poked and prodded, while criminals spread libel about him.

He can’t focus on that for now, though. There's the Temerian Royal Family he has to keep alive and before he gets the names of the people who plan to kill them, nothing’s more important.

* * *

The rest of the day turns very interesting when the Police find a body in a car submerged in Vizima Lake near the Outskirts; the remains are identified as Vermont Jonne, the chairman of one of the charities supported by Aubry, the one person Triss and Geralt haven’t managed to question, because he was unavailable. The preliminary autopsy report reveals that the man was already dead when he was put into the car and pushed into the lake. With no CCTV coverage in the area and no fingerprints inside the car, they have no clues to follow. All they know is that the man was murdered, so Geralt manages to get a search warrant for the charity’s headquarters: it’s just a flat in the Temple Quarter, empty and unused. The Police also searches the man’s house in the Outskirts and find it completely ransacked, with floorboards torn, furniture overturned, papers lying all over the place, clothes cut into shreds.

Triss, who has led the search, sighs at the mess.

“I guess we’re onto something,” she murmurs and Bekker, one of the officers that were with her during the raid on Aubry’s house, snorts. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and calls Geralt. “You need to look into Jonne’s associates, bank records and all that,” she says once he picks up.

“Okay,” Geralt replies and ends the call.

Then, around four in the afternoon, someone reports that a man matching Rience’s description could be seen outside the Ropers Gate, north of Vizima city walls. The two policemen sent there find nothing.

Also, the website that first posted speculations about Carre’s involvement in Roggeveen’s escape publishes a text about the respect Carre had for Roggeveen, but without quoting Dysant’s unsent text message. The Royals conclude that the info came from Roggeveen himself, not from someone inside the Police or Temerian or Redanian secret services: Roggeveen probably had heard the conversation between Carre and Dysant but had had no idea about the text, and he’s the only person who survived the attack on the convoy, except the Redanians, but they didn’t interact with him.

By the end of the day, everyone involved in the two cases feels like there’s a lab burner under them, increasing the temperature. The air in the Homicide Dept is thick with tension, Geralt drinks mug after mug of his tea and then has to go upstairs to smoke his cigarette; Triss’ clothes are crumpled and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

That evening, as Vesemir steps out of his office and smells the aroma of coffee and Geralt’s tea permeating the air, he makes the only decision he can: he sends everyone home.

* * *

That evening, Ciri is less clingy than yesterday; she still doesn’t talk much and doesn’t want to discuss the reasons for her distress yesterday, but she answers Geralt’s embarrassing questions about her love life since he’s noticed something’s going on between her and her girlfriend and it’s the only topic that gets a reaction from her.

“Mistle blackmails me into the Rats’ mischief. I don’t want to get into trouble, I had enough of that already,” she confesses as they eat supper. “I’ve told her that, but she still pulls that ‘if you care about me’ shit.”

Geralt nods. He has experience with that.

“You should think about what’s more important to you. A person who really cares about you should respect your choices.”

“Is that how it is with you and Regis?”

“Haven’t tested that yet, but I like to believe so,” Geralt shrugs.

Ciri hums and impales a piece of pasta on her fork.

“How do you feel about Yennefer leaving Vizima?” she asks.

Geralt’s startled by the direct question.

“We’re friends, I’ll miss her, I think,” he admits. “I’m more worried about what you feel about it.”

“She says she’ll be only a phone call away if I need her, but it’s not the same, you know?”

Geralt nods.

“Why does she even leave? What’s wrong with Temeria?” Ciri inquires with a hint of resentment.

“Stricter magic restrictions and taxes higher than in Aedirn,” Geralt supplies. “Besides, she moved here because of me, we’re over two years after the divorce, so I guess she wants to reclaim some of her old life. She’s going home. Can’t blame her for that; sorry that you feel like she’s leaving you. You should talk to her about it.”

Ciri purses her lips and looks down at her plate. She starts to play more with the food than eat it.

Geralt watches her for a few seconds.

“Want to spend the night at Regis’?” he asks.

She startles.

“What, all three of us?”

“Yeah. I promise we’ll be quiet in the bedroom.”

“Ew!” she exclaims and throws a crumpled napkin at him. He catches it and throws it back at her; it bounces off her forehead.

A half an hour later they step out of their townhouse. Ciri stops at the sight of the Royals’ van, still parked on the other side of the road.

“Wait here,” Geralt tells Ciri, then goes to the van and knocks on the driver’s window. “We’re going out, you stay here and keep an eye on the flat,” he says, turns around and jogs to Roach before the agents can reply. Ciri joins him, they put on their helmets and the dark blue, beaten Koviri motorbike soon speeds away into the evening, towards the Dike and the Temple Quarter.

* * *

Rience looks at the TV screen standing in a corner of the messy living room in the even messier two-bedroom flat. Everything is dirty here except the four beds, a kitchen counter and the bathtub. They didn’t bother with the rest, so the floorboards creak with every step, the faucets whine when opened, they can feel the wind blowing through the windows. They have heating, running water and electricity here, which is much more than they’d expect from a flat in an abandoned townhouse built into the city walls.

On the screen, there are reports of Rience being sighted right outside Vizima and the discovery of Jonne’s body.

“Told you you should keep your arse inside,” Leo Bonhart says and takes a big gulp of his beer as he stands in the doorway and watches the TV.

“Told you you should have hidden Jonne’s body better,” Rience replies, still looking at the screen. “Now they’re onto him.”

“Roggeveen didn’t seem worried.”

“He’s the one hiding very far away from here. If the Police look into Jonne too deeply, we’re burned.”

“You know what we can do to help with that,” Bonhart shrugs.

Rience glances at him.

_Watch your world burn._

_They should be careful so we won’t beat them to it._

He smiles.

* * *

Geralt has to admit that sparring is not the healthiest activity for him, but at least Triss uses more agility than strength-based technique. He rarely sees her in hand-to-hand combat, their work much less exciting in that regard than some people think. 

“How do you feel about the loosening of the restrictions?” Geralt asks as he dodges a high kick from Triss. He uses his left hand to disturb the flow of her move, but she spins expertly and lands on two feet, her arms in a defensive pose.

“It’s good. Keira is working hard on making my case dismissed, I have bigger chances now,” Triss says with a smile and makes a jab at Geralt head; he blocks her and feigns his attack with his right hand, then tries to kick her legs from under her, but she’s fast enough to not allow him.

She’s still under close watch by their Internal Affairs after the events in Gors Velen harbour. No-one is in a hurry to give any kind of verdict, but now the case has a chance to be closed with no negative impact on Triss’ career. Geralt knows Adon Carre suggested a ‘Quen backfire’ theory, and while he knows it’s improbable — he hadn’t been in a state to be able to draw a Sign strong enough to deflect Roggeveen’s fire spell — Triss’ defence is hanging on tight on that possibility.

Triss’ case is a low priority, though, with the mess in the IA after Vincent Meis’ leave. She still can work, and that’s all that matters.

“You have a chance to be able to use your magic at work,” Geralt points out as he blocks another kick from Triss with his left forearm. His shoulder gives a warning pang.

“Only when strictly necessary,” Triss corrects and uses Geralt’s classic move — a spin in the air with a high kick. It looks impressive, but in most situations is impractical, just like now, when all Geralt needs to do is crouch low and then push his hand up to throw her off. Geralt uses the move while fighting monsters that are much larger than him, so Triss was only showing off doing it now.

Triss lands on the mat gracefully with a roll, and then she’s up on her feet again, prepared for Geralt’s attack.

Geralt gives her a predatory smile and attacks for real for the first time during this session: so far he was focused mostly on the defence, so a series of quick jabs and low kicks take Triss by surprise. She’s fast and good at defence, too, but not when Geralt uses his witcher abilities: soon his partner is cornered, they’re standing nose to nose, her hands locked between them, Geralt’s amber cat eyes staring straight into her blue eyes. She’s panting, he’s smirking. The session is over.

With a fast and strong outward move, Triss unlocks her arms. Geralt takes a step back.

“Good session,” he says.

Triss looks like she wants to roll her eyes, but then she remembers she was sparring with a witcher, so she just nods with a soft smile, accepting the praise.

Geralt is aware of the tension between them in moments like this but pretends otherwise. Triss also never makes any advances when they’re particularly close: as clichéd as it is, a heated kiss in an armlock is allowed in movies, not between them. Geralt isn’t even sure Triss knows who Geralt’s current living partner is.

They slowly go towards the lockers, then change into their daily clothes.

As he fastens the gun holster to his belt, he hears a chirp from his phone — a reminder of a message he got while sparring; he checks his emails to find a photo attached to a message signed ‘ac’ again. He frowns. He recognises the place in the photo.

“Cemetery entrance to the sewers?” he murmurs.

“What?” Triss asks.

Then, he hears a soft sound of some kind of commotion in the basement: more specifically, in the locked part of the city sewers right under the station, where the four Wolf witchers have set up their potion and bombs lab, along with the stash of weaponry and armour for monster hunting.

“Someone’s downstairs,” he says softly and pushes his phone into his jeans pocket. “Need to check it.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Triss asks.

“No, we’ll meet upstairs,” Geralt waves his hand at her.

He has the key to the hatch to the lab on his keyring, so it’s only a matter of seconds before he steps down the ladder into the damp corridor. The lab is just behind the corner; when they set it up, they made sure the equipment is safe from water. That part of the sewers is closed off by locked bars, and only the witchers have the keys to access the tunnels beyond them. The equipment — the sets of armours for all four of them, grindstones for the silver swords, potion brewing set and weapons stands — take almost all the space in the narrow corridor.

Geralt can hear someone walking through the puddles of water beyond the bars, and draws his gun. He doesn’t want to shoot without a clear target, not this close to flammable substances they make their potions and bombs with.

The person in the tunnels sets off to a run. Geralt hears a soft chirping noise and looks around, searching for the source.

It doesn’t take long before he finds it: a small device by the bars, as close to their gunpowder supply as possible, secured behind a magical shield, preventing him from touching it.

It’s also a time bomb. They have two minutes left.

Geralt draws in a sharp breath and runs towards the ladder, the emergency number already dialling on his phone.

“Evacuate!” he bellows, knowing all the people inside the station should be able to hear him through their PA system. “There’s a bomb under the building, set to blow in less than two minutes! This is not a drill, evacuate!”

He can hear a commotion upstairs: the officers in the gym took it seriously and now go straight to the stairs to the ground floor. Geralt runs with them and sees the lobby is already crowded, too, with people running outside and away from the building.

The alarm blares, but Geralt can hear thunderclaps and glass breaking: probably Eskel and Vesemir are hard at work breaking windows with Aard, providing new ways of escape. Geralt does the same with the windows on this floor, his Aard pushing out the bars mounted to the walls outside.

Triss and Keira run past him, out of the building and into the parking lot.

Then, there’s a rumble from the basement.

His medallion vibrates against his chest, there’s a feminine double shout in Elder Speech and coils of power encircle the whole building just as the floor starts to rise with the explosion. Geralt feels a twinge of pain in the scars made by Roggeveen and takes a sharp breath. He doesn’t have time to think about the spell meeting the remnants of the sorcerer’s magic; he’s also painfully aware that a spell like this is very complicated and draining, Triss and Keira risk their lives holding it. It holds back the explosion though; the people in the building don’t seem to notice it, they just run out. Geralt tries not to get in the way and ignores the pain when he checks the smaller rooms on the ground floor. People are still running down the stairs.

The building shakes.

Geralt grabs someone who almost trips, steadies them and pushes them towards the door.

There are cracks on the walls and in the floor now, the building’s shaking like a spring ready to be released, or boiling water under a lid. It can blow any second now.

Vesemir is shouting upstairs, Geralt wants to tell him to run, they have only seconds left, but he doesn’t have the time to spare, he has to run or he’ll die here.

Geralt casts Quen and follows one group of people on their way out of the building. He can hear Triss and Keira screaming that they can’t hold the spell any longer, and then the building explodes.

* * *

The explosion is strong enough to shake the windows in Ciri’s high school across the city. The students, now in the middle of a Chemistry test, freeze and look around.

Ciri has an increasing feeling of dread, much the same as the one two days ago.

The teacher, sorceress Margarita Laux-Antille, looks up.

“Keep writing,” she orders and starts typing on her classroom computer. When the students keep looking around and whispering, as if any of their friends knows more than they do, she turns on the projector and puts the website with the city cameras on the big screen over the blackboard.

There’s a column of smoke somewhere in the Temple Quarter.

Ciri freezes for a few seconds, then she feels herself stand up, walk up to the teacher’s desk with her unfinished test and put it down.

“I need to go,” she chokes out.

“It’s the second time this week—” the teacher sighs with exasperation, then looks at Ciri’s face. “Cirilla? Are you alright?” she asks with a concerned frown.

“I really need to go, my dad works there,” Ciri replies, waving her hand at the screen.

“You won’t help there, it’s safer if you stay here.”

“Can’t. Please, I need to go. I’ll go home, check there, maybe he’s—”

“Fine, go.”

Ciri runs out of school and rides her bicycle straight home.

She barges into their flat through the already unlocked front door and hopes against hope that Geralt is at home, that he’s safe, that he isn’t there, under what has to be a pile of rubble now.

She throws her backpack on the floor by the door and runs into the living room.

Geralt’s not at home. The flat isn’t empty though.

There’s a tall and ghoulishly thin man standing in the middle of their living room, watching her with his pale grey, fishy eyes and a smirk on his face, adorned with the grey moustache. The whole place is a total mess, clothes and papers strewn on the floor, some broken glass by the overturned table.

“Who the fuck are you?” she says, panting, staring at the man. She hears someone’s steps behind her and she turns to see another man, slightly shorter than the first one, with sharp nose, dark eyes and a predatory smile on his face.

“Is that how Haute raised you?” the second man asks, his tone mocking. “He sure is proud of you.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Ciri repeats, still panting. Her heart is hammering in her chest, she sees red at the edges of her vision.

“We’re friends of your dad,” the first man says and takes a slow step towards her.

Ciri jumps to the side, closer to her bedroom door.

“Stay away! Who the fucking fuck are you?!” she yells. It’s more curse words that she typically uses in a week, but she can feel the panic rising in her. These men definitely aren’t Geralt’s friends.

The man behind her approaches, too, and Ciri can feel the hair on the back of her head rising with a tingle. Magic. That man is a sorcerer. She thinks she recognises him, from the warrant of arrest released in the TV.

Rience.

“Go away!” she screams, her fists clenched.

The men just smirk at her and start to corner her by the wall.

“Shit,” she spits. “Stay away!” she shouts again and the sound reverberates across the room.

The men pause for a second, surprised by the volume of her voice, then look at each other, then lunge at her.

“STAY AWAY!” she bellows and the windows vibrate with it. “STAY AWAAAAAY!!!” she screams and screams and screams, there’s the sound of glass breaking, someone’s panicked shouts, and then the world goes dark.

* * *

When Geralt wakes up, he’s lying facedown on the street; sirens are wailing all over the city and the station’s building is gone: it’s just smoking rubble.

Geralt heaves himself to his feet, his vision swimming, piercing pain in his side; blood is flowing down his face, into his right eye. The air is thick with dust. Triss and Eskel, seemingly unharmed, are performing triage on the parking lot by the gate; the survivors — about fifty of them — are huddled by the walls. Lambert is limping heavily through the rubble, hugging his side and visibly favouring his right leg. EMTs from St. Lebioda’s Hospital are running towards them. Keira tries to magically stop the bleeding from one of their colleague’s side, although she looks pale and on the verge of panic.

Vesemir’s nowhere to be seen.

The buildings adjacent to their parking lot have lost their windows, but there’s no major damage, except to the station. There are no fires, the dust is settling.

Geralt realises that Triss and Keira saved multiple lives today with their magic. They gave them at least two minutes to evacuate and probably contained most of the force of the blast.

He has a nagging feeling that he’s forgetting something.

_Dad, where are you?!_

“Ciri,” he gasps and looks around. He thanks whatever made him park Roach by the gate this morning, not next to the station’s entrance, which is his usual spot. He runs towards the bike; he has his keys still in his trousers pockets, so he starts the engine the moment he’s in the seat. His helmet was left inside the station, but he can’t be bothered by that now.

“Geralt, where are you going?” Triss calls to him, but he ignores her and speeds through the city and the Dike to Old Vizima, taking sharp turns between townhouses and other users of the city streets, including the emergency services speeding towards the station, with only his daughter in mind.

He knows he must look dreadful. At least one person was staring at him as he sped past them, his face covered in blood and dirt, clothes torn.

As he sees Ciri’s bicycle by the door of their townhouse and the broken windows on their floor, he has no idea what to think. He leaves Roach by the door and runs up the stairs. He doesn’t pay any attention to the Royals’ van parked on the other side of the road, so he doesn’t notice the driver and another agent in the passenger seat slumped against the doors of the van, their necks bloody.

The door to their flat is slightly ajar. Geralt instinctively reaches for his gun by his belt and is almost surprised to find it there.

He enters the flat on light feet, making as little noise as possible, his gun at the ready, safety off.

Ciri’s backpack lies by the door. Geralt can’t sense anybody in the flat, it’s quiet.

The living room looks like something blew up here or there was a heavy fight. The furniture is turned over, everything delicate or made of glass is broken, including the screen of the TV hanging, crooked, on the wall. The curtains sway with the wind blowing through the broken windows.

Ciri’s smartphone is lying on the floor, the screen in pieces. Geralt picks it up and checks if it’s on, but it’s so broken he can’t even unlock the screen.

There’s a broken tune coming out of his phone in his jeans pocket. The device somehow survived the blast, but it’s barely working, too, now.

There’s an unknown number calling. Geralt accepts the call.

“Hello?”

“Your daughter has interesting powers,” a male, gruff voice says on the other side. “Really useful for what we want to achieve.”

“Don’t you dare—” Geralt starts, feeling his blood freeze in his veins.

“I’d suggest you be nicer if you wanted to get her back in one piece, but no, I don’t think it’s going to happen. We don’t need you. I’m just calling to let you know.”

Something small and round falls through the broken window into the flat, rolling. It takes half a second for Geralt to recognise a grenade and start drawing Quen, and another half a second for it to blow.

* * *

“That is a beautiful bonfire,” Rience comments, looking at the flames coming from the second floor flat’s window, licking the townhouse’s wall.

“My ears are still ringing because of that bitch,” Bonhart grumbles.

Rience glances at him.

“You’re lucky we ended up only with that,” he says.

“I wonder if he’s dead.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

There’s a wail of alarm coming from the road on the other side of the building. A van comes to a stop right beside them. Shirrú grins at them from behind the driver’s back.

“Get the fuck in the car,” the driver snaps at them.

Bonhart and Rience jog to the van and the vehicle drives away at a moderate speed, so it doesn’t attract attention.

* * *

Geralt regains consciousness for the second time today. This time he lies face up and the only major sensation in his body is a splitting headache. He can’t feel his limbs, he’s not even sure he’s still breathing. All he can do is watch the flames lick at the walls of his and Ciri’s flat, the ceiling already dark from the smoke that itches in his throat, but he can’t even cough.

“Geralt!”

 _That sounds like Triss,_ Geralt thinks. _Really panicked Triss, when was the last time Triss was this panicked?_ He can’t remember.

_Dad, where are you?!_

He hears the thunderclap from somewhere really close-by, then he feels that he’s falling through a black void, and then there’s nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now I’ll go hide under that rock over there, and you feel free to leave a comment. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the Major Plot Event.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... a.k.a. The Grand Theft of Themes And Characters From the Source Material ;)

_ News of the day: 31 Birke 1595 will always be remembered as one of the most tragic days in Vizima’s modern history. Two explosions in the Temple Quarter and Old Vizima destroyed the building of the main Police Station, damaged several others, took the lives of at least fifteen people, left ninety wounded and at least fifteen missing. The preliminary reports suggest that the attacks were aimed at Geralt Haute: the detective in the Homicide Department, who lived in the townhouse damaged in the second explosion. Haute was the officer who had arrested Vilgefortz Roggeveen and recently worked on the assassination threats against the Royal Family. Haute and his daughter are now considered missing. _

* * *

“That went well,” Bonhart says as he throws his bag on the bed and sits by it to unpack. Shirrú: the tall, dark-haired half-elf with cat-like, yellow-green almond-shaped eyes, snorts.

“If you say so,” Cahir aep Ceallach, known to others as ‘the Nilfgaardian’ if they’re lazy or ‘Declan’ if they have to use a name, murmurs, scowling, and plops down on the dusty armchair, leaning back with his butt close to the edge, arms thrown over the armrests, legs stretched out. He’s still wearing his black coat, although the beanie got thrown on the hanger the moment they came in.

“You don’t think so?” Bonhart asks.

“First of all, we didn’t get what we came for—”

“Debatable,” Shirrú cuts in as he unpacks his bag.

“— and since when do we go after teenagers?”

“What? You developed conscience now?” Bonhart smirks. “We do when it’s relevant for Rience’s and Roggeveen’s interests.”

Cahir doesn’t react to that, he just sits there, still scowling.

“That’s probably because he knows Haute,” Rience announces as he enters the hideout.

Bonhart and Shirrú straighten.

“What?” they ask in unison.

“I only met him once a very long time ago and we’re not friends,” Cahir rolls his eyes.

“Apparently, since you didn’t say a word when we went after his daughter and then bombed his flat,” Shirrú says.

“And his workplace before that,” Bonhart adds with a gleeful smile.

Cahir purses his lips. Rience is staring at him, trying to read his reaction, but the dark-haired and blue-eyed man keeps his face devoid of emotions. He’s good at it. He used to be a spy after all.

* * *

When the first explosion shakes the Chameleon’s windows, Dandelion is sensible enough to not just run and find out what happened; or maybe that’s Priscilla grabbing his sleeve and not letting him move. He makes sure they’re safe and then turns on the news on TV, advising the patrons to stay inside and not get in the way of emergency services.

The first reports are provided by the visibly shaken journalists who know about as much as the people in the Chameleon, which is nothing. They only learn that the Police station on the other side of the gate was blown up.

The air is thick with smoke and dust, the sirens are wailing, windows shake more when the heavy vehicles of the fire department rush by the building towards the gate to the Temple Quarter. More people gather in the Chameleon, looking for gossip and safety. Dandelion tries to call Regis, but the surgeon doesn’t pick up, probably busy tending to the wounded.

About half an hour later, there are reports of the second explosion, in Old Vizima. Zoltan, Dandelion and Priscilla stare at each other, immediately connecting the dots.

“Go,” Zoltan and Priscilla say at the same time, so Dandelion takes his car keys and drives the long route through Vizima to the Dike, towards Geralt’s flat. He can’t use the more direct route, because that would mean driving past the blown up Police station, so it’s a ride north through the Royal Quarter, then the Temple Quarter to the Dike. It’s not easy, either, with the crowds of onlookers and emergency services’ vehicles speeding through narrow roads.

He can’t get close, so he parks the car on the pavement and runs the last two hundred metres to Geralt’s flat. He won’t admit it, but he almost faints when he sees the state of the townhouse from the outside, cold dread setting inside his chest. The fire department is already dealing with the fire, thick smoke comes from the broken windows of Geralt’s flat, people were evacuated and are gathered outside, huddled together, trying to keep warm in the still chilly, humid spring air.

He sees the familiar blue bike lying by the townhouse wall.

Auburn hair draws his attention. Triss is sitting on the curb away from the people, hugging her knees, a dead look on her soot-covered face. Her hair is in total disarray, loose strands hanging limply around her face, the scrunchie halfway down her ponytail, ready to fall off; some blood is smeared on her forehead. Her clothes are covered in dirt, her suit trousers and jacket are torn in a few places.

“Triss!” he calls as he runs to her.

They’re not friends, they’ve never been. They know each other because they know Geralt; Triss rarely visits the Chameleon, but she attended some of the parties the Homicide Dept had at the inn.

Triss knows that Dandelion is Geralt’s best friend, though.

She looks up when he reaches her.

“Where’s Geralt?” he asks, trying to catch his breath, staring at her as he stands before her, his arms hanging stiffly by his sides, hands clenched into fists to stop them from shaking.

“Somewhere safe, I hope,” Triss replies in a tiny voice and lowers her gaze, avoiding him.

“You… you hope,” Dandelion manages and looks around. He forces his hands to unclench. “What happened?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. I hope they’ll let me into the flat when they’re done.”

“Is Geralt inside?”

“No, I told you,” Triss replies, “I managed to get him out.” Her voice is devoid of any emotions. Dandelion suspects she’s incapable of processing the events, at least for now.

“How?”

Triss shrugs. Dandelion suspects it’s easier than actually explaining what she means.

He wonders whether she was at the station when it blew up. She looks exhausted.

“What about Ciri?” he asks. He’s seen her bicycle, bent and broken, lying on the pavement by the townhouse, right next to Roach.

Triss looks at him again and purses her lips. It’s clear she doesn’t know.

“Right,” Dandelion breathes and fidgets, unsure what to do with his hands. He moves them from his hips to his sweat-covered brow, through his hair. “Gods…” he murmurs as he sees a fireman leave the building without hurry. He hopes the fire is out now. “Whatever happened, I… I need to tell Yen. No, you tell her, she hates me,” he knows he’s babbling, but his best friend’s workplace and flat were blown up. He copes by babbling. Triss mainly ignores him.

Then, he remembers and feels that cold dread taking a firmer hold on him.

“But Regis, Regis should know!” Dandelion almost shouts and grabs at his hair. “Oh gods, what will I tell him?”

The station is just across the street from St. Lebioda’s Hospital, Regis is probably elbows-deep in work, busy treating people hurt in both explosions.

“Why Regis?” Triss asks, frowning.

Dandelion pauses. He’s not going to be the one to out Regis and Geralt to the witcher’s former lover.

“Because they’re… they’re friends!” he stammers. He then remembers the most important question. “Where is he? Where did you send him?” he almost shouts and as Triss opens her mouth, he adds: “We’ll go there! He probably needs us!”

“I doubt they’d let you in,” Triss manages to say when Dandelion pauses to take a breath. “I’m not even sure they allowed Geralt in,” she admits.

Dandelion opens and closes his mouth like a fish. Everything stops to make sense.

“In where? You said he’s safe!”

Triss stands up and brushes the dirt off her clothes, even though it doesn’t help much with her appearance.

“Brokilon,” she says and Dandelion is sure he’s about to faint — for real, this time.

* * *

There’s a light behind Geralt’s eyelids, and it doesn’t look like the sun. It’s white and so bright he thinks he has his eyes open. He tries to make them squeeze shut, but the light doesn’t change.

He’s being moved. Someone’s carrying him, he’s lying on a stretcher; he thinks he can hear the sounds of steps on dry leaves and branches. A forest? What is he doing in a forest?

He twitches.

_ Gwynbleidd… _

There’s chanting and it takes him some time to recognise Elder Speech, but it’s weird, it’s a dialect, one he hasn’t heard in a very long time, maybe forty years.

Dryads.

He’s carried down a hill.

The light fades to black.

When he comes to again, he’s floating, totally submerged in some viscous liquid, feeling weightless and restrained at the same time. He wants to fight, but his whole body is numb, with that feeling that promises to bring pain once whatever anaesthetic he was given wears off. He has no idea how he breathes and wants to panic about it, but then he hears some more of that chanting in Elder Speech like it’s coming through the water and then there’s only silence and darkness.

* * *

The day after the bombings is the first time they realise the extent of the damage, how many buildings need a makeover, how many people were lost. Some survivors are still found under the rubble; officers able to work are being moved to the Royal Quarter. Regis calls Dandelion once, thanks him for the information where Geralt might have ended up and then gets back to work.

Dudu and Chappelle return to the Chameleon, unsure what to do with their little task at the Castle now that they’ve lost their handler. Zoltan tries to keep himself together, but he’s doing about as badly as Dandelion, who barely notices what’s happening around him; he doesn’t register his staff doing their best to keep the inn working.

The four of them stay mostly in Dandelion’s office upstairs, staring at each other.

It’s Priscilla who first suggests supporting the search efforts at the station, providing the rescuers with warm food and drinks. No-one of the inn employees protests. It’s greatly appreciated by the firefighters who work around the clock, at night in the light of portable halogens, and the weather doesn’t treat them well, with the spring being quite cold, colder than usual at this time of year.

Her organising skills make the chief bartender, Ilona, turn to her asking to take over the helm of the inn, with their supplies running low and everyone still panicked. Priscilla almost panics herself about that task, but then she takes a deep breath, glances towards the stairs leading to Dandelion’s office, then looks back at Ilona and asks:

“What needs to be done?”

Philippa Eilhart finds the inn more or less back in the usual order when she steps inside in the evening the day after the explosions. Outside, she passed Priscilla talking to the press about the support for the search efforts and the fact that some of the officers were regulars at the inn and personal friends. Inside the inn, she sees Dandelion sitting at the counter, nursing a coffee and staring at the table.

“Pankratz,” Philippa says as she joins him.

Dandelion yelps and almost jumps out of his skin. When he turns, the look on Philippa’s face is pure exasperation.

“Tell me, why did we consider you a valuable asset?” Eilhart asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Because I was a travelling musician with a lot of contacts back in the day. You lost interest once I settled down here.”

“We lost interest long before that,” Philippa says and sits on the stool next to Dandelion. When she catches sight of the bartender, she waves her hand at Dandelion’s cup, ordering a coffee for herself. “Someone suggested putting you through a special ops training; Dijkstra was very quick to fire the idiot.”

Dandelion hums and takes a sip of his coffee.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“Everyone knows you’re the person to go to when something concerns Geralt Haute,” Philippa replies with a shrug.

“I know probably as much as everyone else. I have no idea what state he’s in or when he’ll return.”

“But you know where he is.” Philippa nods at the bartender when Ilona brings her the coffee.

“Somewhere safe, probably having some medical miracles performed on him, considering his flat has been blown up with him inside.”

Philippa stares at Dandelion.

“Not Ellander, we’d know. Somewhere close enough to Temerian borders so he doesn’t have much trouble getting through. Brokilon?”

Dandelion carefully avoids looking her in the eyes and doesn’t reply.

“Why do you care?” he asks instead.

“Haute’s a valuable asset and we tend to protect them.”

“Also, he’s probably the only person you can be sure that he’ll find Roggeveen and stop him for good?”

“He’s still a target and will be even more so when he returns. The Royals will take over Haute’s investigation at the Castle, so he’ll have all the time in the world to focus on Roggeveen and Roggeveen will notice. Be careful so you’re not caught in the crossfire, along with your girlfriend and the dwarven sidekick.”

“Who are you calling a sidekick?” Zoltan Chivay demands as he joins them, taking a stool on the other side of Dandelion.

“Mister Chivay,” Philippa smiles sweetly, taking in his rugged, but sober features. “Do you have any idea whether your kin in Mahakam would agree to harbour a renegade sorcerer for a proper fee?”

Zoltan looks at her, up and down, his lips pursed and brows furrowed.

“Roggeveen hiding in Mahakam? No, I don’t think so,” he shakes his head. “Even for money. I mean, Brouver Hoog is a greedy sonuvabitch, but even living under a rock he knows that Roggeveen is even worse and letting him stay there would bring more trouble than any war has ever caused us.”

“That’s one place ruled out,” Philippa murmurs and drinks some more of her coffee.

They sit in silence for a short while.

“At least I know another reason why we’ve lost interest in you,” she says to Dandelion as she finishes her coffee. “You believed I’m on Haute’s side straight away. What if I was spying for Roggeveen?”

“If I wasn’t sure before that you don’t work for Roggeveen, I’d be by now,” Dandelion smiles. “I’ve spent enough time with emotionally constipated people to be able to read them.”

“Emotionally constipated?” Philippa drawls out.

“I mean, when I met Geralt, he was a broody git, no friends, no home, no surname,” Dandelion replies, seemingly unaware of the potential danger he’s just put himself in. Zoltan, on the other hand, is watching Philippa carefully now. “I had to find a way to make him open up. I know when people like him are lying and you two are pretty similar.”

Zoltan clears his throat.

“I don’t mean you’re emotionally constipated,” Dandelion says, raising both of his hands in a placating gesture. “Even if you are,” he murmurs.

Philippa smirks at him, leaves some money on the counter and stands up.

“By the way, it’s time for you two to pull yourself together. Your girlfriend is doing an amazing job here, but it’s not her job and she’s running on fumes, so get back to being the man she needs.”

“Do you really think Roggeveen can go after us?” Dandelion asks her quietly.

Philippa looks into his eyes.

“It’s more than likely. If you need any help getting anyone through any border, let me know.”

“I thought I wasn’t an asset anymore.”

“No, but, as I said, Haute is, and your girlfriend is too cute to risk something happening to her,” Philippa smirks and leaves the inn.

* * *

After being allowed inside Geralt’s flat the day after the bombing, Triss spends long hours going through what was left of it, with Eskel’s blessing. He’s the acting CO of the Homicide Dept now; he’s more than fine with her staying away from the rubble of their former workplace, as long as some job is done.

The fact that nobody had died inside the flat was the first thing established. By some miracle, the walls survived the grenade blast and the fire, the structure of the whole townhouse was deemed safe for people to return to, thanks to the solid elven and dwarven construction; the charities started by the Royal Family, Emhyr var Emreis and some other rich citizens, like Countess Anna Kameny, promised compensations for everyone affected by both attacks.

As far as Triss knows, nothing is missing from Geralt’s flat, although she’s been here only once or twice before: the place doesn’t look searched through or robbed, it’s just a burnt mess. There are two smartphones, one in the hallway, the other on the living room floor, both sodden after the firefighters’ intervention and not working; she packs them for forensics. Her scanning with an amulet reveals the remnants of a powerful surge of magic by the living room wall, next to the smaller bedroom door; it looks like another explosion occurred there. The Royals scanned the area for traces of magic before she was even allowed in the flat; the preliminary results are that the surge was inconsistent with the portal-typical frequency. Triss can only guess it was Ciri’s power unleashed; to what end, she has no idea.

She barely has any idea what’s happening with her colleagues at the station and she’s genuinely afraid to check. She knows they’re digging up bodies there: not everyone managed to get out before the building collapsed. The loss of equipment is less important.

She rarely leaves the flat; she went to check the clue Geralt had gotten right before the bombing of the station, about the cemetery entrance to the city sewers. She remembered it in the evening, hours after she was allowed into the flat, and texted Eskel about it. He asked her to check it herself and promised her some backup; he also promised to request the CCTV recordings from the area.

_ They found Vesemir’s body, _ he added in a separate message.

After that, she went out into the staircase and cried for an hour,  _ sorceresses don’t cry _ be damned.

Then, she went to the cemetery, met a rookie police officer waiting for her there and looking scared shitless at the prospect of entering the city sewers during the night. Their adventure was short and uneventful, they found some picked locks, sawed through grates and a couple of drowners cut to pieces before they were stopped by the unpassable rubble in the tunnel. They could hear drilling, hammering, dog barks and people calling somewhere near. They returned to the surface using the way they had come, not speaking a word.

Triss also managed to talk to Geralt’s neighbours. Of course, no-one noticed anyone suspicious; one elderly lady remembered that Ciri had screamed some profanities and then had stopped abruptly. She heard some people entering and leaving the flat, Ciri’s running steps minutes before her scream.

The lady also mentioned her disappointment in Geralt bringing trouble into the area after two years of peaceful life and that Ciri could be quite mouthy, “disrespectful to elders”. Triss could only imagine what kind of situation would cause Ciri to be rude to one elderly lady.

The agents keeping an eye on the flat had been surprised and murdered quietly.

The Royals were trying to get some CCTV recordings from the database, but the coverage was sparse. This area of town was cheap.

“This is hopeless,” she murmurs on the second day of her work in the flat. She arrived at dawn. With all the damage in the living room carefully catalogued and sent for analysis, there’s not much she can still do here.

She stands in the middle of the living room, her gloved fingers twitching by her sides, and takes in the mess.

“The station was bombed, Ciri ran out of school and came here,” she murmurs. Tissaia de Vries called her about that little detail after Ciri had been reported missing, so they have the timeframe for that, at least. “There was probably someone inside already. She drops her phone in the hallway, goes to the living room, sees the strangers... Sets off her magic in panic?” she guesses. She knows, of course, of Ciri’s power, as does Yennefer. They both had to train the girl to control it, so she wouldn’t go crazy with magic-related schizophrenia and would be able to use the magic if necessary. She also knows that Geralt hasn’t registered Ciri as a magic-user, as her power is unique.

She wonders whether Roggeveen knew about Ciri’s power before he sent his people here. They have no proof of Roggeveen’s involvement, but the whole affair just stinks of it.

“There was no other portal between the first surge and me teleporting Geralt, so either that first surge was Ciri’s and she escaped, or they found another way of transporting her…” Her throat tightens at the thought.  _ If Roggeveen has Ciri… _ She shakes her head, takes a deep breath and slowly blows out the air through her mouth. “Geralt runs in. And then what? The flat gets bombed with him inside. Someone must’ve been watching it from the outside, waiting for Geralt.”

There’s a knock on the door and Triss jumps in surprise.

“Triss? Are you in there?”

Yen.

Triss frowns, goes to the front door and opens it. Yen quickly takes in her latex gloves and protective covers on her shoes.

“Can I come in? I promise I won’t touch anything,” Yen asks politely and Triss nods, letting her in.

“You may actually help here, tell me if something’s missing.”

Yen steps carefully over the still-wet floor of the hallway and stops in the living room door, clutching the belt of the handbag hanging on her shoulder. She’s dressed in a black business suit with a white button-down shirt and high-heeled, leather shoes. Her hair is arranged in a tight bun in the back of her head, with some loose strands of hair framing her face. She looks sharp, the suit nicely emphasising her features, while still making her look no-nonsense and professional.

Now she just looks worried and tired, like she’s barely slept.

“Do you have any idea what happened to Ciri?” she asks quietly.

“No,” Triss replies as she walks past Yen to the living room. She nods when she notices that Yen is staring at the point where the power surge originated from.

Yen visibly steels herself, her posture stiff, her breathing carefully controlled.

“Any word from Geralt?” Yen asks, her voice level.

“No. We won’t probably hear anything before he returns and there’s no way of telling when that will be.”

Yen turns to her abruptly, her eyes full of tears.

“As much as I hate to admit it, considering what happened between us, I’m sure you saved his life and I owe you for this,” she says with emphasis, her hands clutching her bag strap.

“No, Yen, you’re the last person to owe me anything,” Triss replies. Two years after their tumultuous divorce Yen still cares about Geralt. Triss doesn’t remember Yen being so shaken. “And I just teleported him where they could save his life and he’d be safe.”

“Dandelion told me. Brokilon.”

Triss nods.

“So he braved telling you? He thinks you hate him,” she says with a soft smile, remembering the man’s scared face. Another person caring deeply about Geralt; of all of the non-witchers in their circle, Dandelion knows the witcher best, or at least the longest.

“I don’t hate him. He irritates me, that’s all,” Yen admits and relaxes slightly. She still doesn’t move from her spot in the door, now just looking around the room. “This wasn’t a robbery,” she says after a short while.

“I don’t think so, no.”

Yen exhales slowly.

She takes an amulet from her jacket pocket and holds it, hanging from a thin chain, over the spot of the power surge.

“So, we agree it’s Ciri’s,” Triss murmurs.

Yen nods without a word. She puts the amulet back into her pocket.

“I’ll try to track her,” she says and looks around the room.

There’s a framed drawing on a bookshelf. The glass is broken, but the drawing itself is undamaged. Yen takes it, holding it through a handkerchief. Triss glances at it over her shoulder.

It’s crude despite the details, pencil on paper, no colours. Four animals: a light grey wolf head in the middle, a swallow sitting on it. On two sides, slightly above the wolf, there’s a kestrel and a raven, their wings outstretched like in flight, but it looks more like the two birds are covering or protecting the wolf and the swallow.

“Who’s drawn it?” Triss asks. “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know and it doesn’t concern you,” Yen replies, suddenly sharp, and puts the frame back on the bookshelf.

“Who’s the raven?” Triss insists. She knows what — or who — the rest of the animals symbolise. Geralt being called the White Wolf is not a secret. Ciri’s name in Elder Speech — Zireael — means swallow _ , _ the kestrel is Yen’s favourite messenger animal. There’s no-one in Geralt’s circle she knows who would be symbolised by a raven, no-one as close as Ciri and Yen are to him, as far as she’s aware.

Yen looks at her, her eyes glowing purple. It lasts just a second, but it’s enough of a warning to make Triss retreat.

“I’ve sent Geralt’s and Ciri’s phones to forensics. Who should I give them to when I get them back?” Triss asks.

“Dandelion,” Yen replies after a second of consideration. “Thank you for letting me in. I’ll see myself out,” Yen says, turns and leaves without a further word.

* * *

Bonhart doesn’t let Cahir out of his sight. Rience locks up the hideout for the night and he’s the only one who has the keys. Shirrú doesn’t seem to mind.

Cahir keeps quiet, trying not to snap at Bonhart’s constant wary looks at him; the fact that they share a bedroom doesn’t help. He spends most of the time cleaning his gun and fixing their equipment: doing anything to keep his hands busy and himself focused on something small.

Three days after the bombings the situation’s calmed down a bit, the search for survivors, casualties and property at both scenes coming to an end.

They’ve killed twenty-five people: twenty-three at the station and two at the townhouse — or, to be precise, outside of it, in a van parked in the spot with the view on Haute’s flat. That discovery causes quite a stir in the media, the whole mess immediately linked to Roggeveen and Haute’s work at the Castle. Some grainy CCTV footage of possible suspects is released, but nothing that would make them immediately recognisable.

Cahir doesn’t react in any way when they learn the numbers. He’s surprised more people didn’t die at the station.

Shirrú is gleeful, though: he was the one who planted the bomb under the station. He calls for a celebration; Rience doesn’t want to participate as he wasn’t a part of the main plan, but he doesn’t forbid them from having fun, as long as they don’t draw attention to themselves. Cahir is sent to buy alcohol and that evening Shirrú gets drunk to the point of unconsciousness, Cahir is tipsy but still in full control of his mouth, Bonhart drinks only one beer while still watching Cahir like a hawk, and Rience hides in one of the bedrooms, door locked.

The next day everyone is well-rested and not hungover, but Cahir thinks Shirrú can thank the elvish part of his ancestry for that. They sit at the kitchen table to eat breakfast like a group of friends and Cahir finds it ironic, considering they would tear him to pieces if they knew what he was doing here.

“I wonder what the Big Boss thinks about Haute being missing and not dead,” Bonhart starts.

Cahir stirs his cereal, staring at it.

“I’m sure he’s happy to still have a potential scapegoat,” Rience replies from behind his newspaper. “What it means for us is that we have to sit here and wait for Haute’s return to the city before we can proceed.”

“Now that’s going to be boring,” Shirrú sighs.

“No, I think it’s a good moment to find someone at the Castle who can help us, thus making Anzelm Aubry expendable,” Rience raises his eyebrows at Shirrú. “Aubry’s too much of a whiner, with this ‘somebody’s watching me at the Castle!’ new paranoia of his.”

“Roggeveen’s going to use Haute anyway.”

“Yes, but I don’t think he’s going to convince Haute to actually go and kill the King,” Bonhart rolls his eyes and then turns to Cahir. “Unless you don’t agree.”

“It sounded like you think I know him beyond the things you can hear in the streets,” Cahir replies.

“Because I think you do,” Bonhart says with an edge in his voice, leaning over the table towards Cahir, who is sitting opposite him.

“I’ve met him once, nine years ago,” Cahir replies calmly, puts down his spoon and looks Bonhart in the eyes. “We exchanged maybe a sentence or two. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“So, no pangs of conscience at him being blown up after we tried to kidnap his daughter?” Bonhart smirks.

“I didn’t say anything then and I won’t do it now,” Cahir shrugs.

Shirrú suddenly changes places at the table: he plants himself on the chair between Cahir and Bonhart.

“I don’t trust you,” he declares, looking Cahir in the eyes. “I really wanted to trust you, you seemed like a guy that could be fun.”

Cahir looks at him, utterly bored.

“Sorry to disappoint,” he drawls through his teeth.

“No, you’re not,” Shirrú snorts.

“No, I’m not,” Cahir admits.

* * *

_ Eithné likes to think of the Brokilon dryads as above mere humans, but the gossip spreads just as quickly as in a girls’ club, _ Milva thinks as she walks the narrow path from the last cable car stop towards Col Serrai.

_ All that technology, self-sustenance and dignity, and yet Aglaïs had to throw out half of the girls when he appeared, because they latched onto the news like, well, leeches. _

Milva was careful to start looking interested only the day after the current most important patient of Col Serrai landed on their heads, almost literally. By then the most important thing was not the fact that he appeared at all, but whether he would survive.

Three days later he’s still alive. Mostly unconscious, still under Aglaïs’ care, but her face is less pinched now when he’s discussed, so he must be getting better.

Milva’s drawn to him for some reason, the mysterious white-haired man in Col Serrai, who appeared out of nowhere, broken, burned and screaming in pain. Whoever opened the portal, aimed it well, he fell into a pond within Brokilon’s borders, too shallow for him to drown, but his landing was cushioned and noticed immediately; it was only a short walk to Col Serrai, where his fate was decided and he was taken under the dryads’ care.

Milva steps lightly over a branch fallen on the path; she can see the white lights of the Healing Trees between the branches of the great oaks, cedars, pines and other trees, growing only in Brokilon. She’s close. It’s a quite long journey between her home near Craag An and Col Serrai, but most of it can be done by the cable car; only the last few hundred metres have to be walked, as Aglaïs doesn’t allow any noise near the healing area. There’s no road, you can’t drive here; Milva has to be careful to not fly her aircraft low over Col Serrai, or she’d face the dryad’s wrath. It’s one of the reasons her hidden airstrip is so far from here.

_ He’s calmed down since then, he’s no longer screaming, _ she thinks as she walks; he mostly sleeps, and when his eyes are open — his golden, cat-like eyes — they stare into the distance, unseeing.  _ Probably for the best. _

He’s fascinating, in a way, he’s so unlike anything she’s seen in the thirty years of her life. The forest she spends most of her time in is a land of wonders, so she’s really hard to impress: one old, thin man shouldn’t have drawn her in, not like he did.

She stops when she reaches the edge of the clearing in the middle of Col Serrai; it’s the place of the most intense healing, only the worst wounded end up here, the only place they have a chance of survival. The patch of land, clear of trees, is overgrown with conynhaela vines; a thin mist from hot springs covers the clearing, a stream of white Water of Brokilon, full of minerals from the springs, circles around it, fertilising the vines, adding to their healing power.

“You like to spend a lot of time here,” Aglaïs says as she joins Milva. The dryad walked so silently Milva hasn’t heard her; it’s Aglaïs’ domain anyway. The dryad is too old to be obvious on her approach.

Milva shrugs and looks at her point of interest.

At the centre of the clearing lies the man, naked, supine, covered from head to toe with the vines, with only a small part of his face free of the greenery. His eyes are closed, but his brows are furrowed like he’s focusing on something, or maybe he’s in pain, but too drained after days of the magical treatment to make any sounds.

As effective as the treatment at Col Serrai is, it’s painful and that makes it dangerous, too. A less resilient person in a bad enough state would die because of the treatment, not their injuries. Aglaïs is always careful when deciding the proper treatment: not all her patients require the help of the vines, at least not to the extent Milva can see in front of her.

“Be careful, Sor’ca,” Aglaïs adds with a smile, “or you’ll get attached.”

Milva huffs and rolls her eyes. She sits down next to the path that led her here, so she’s not in the way, and observes the man from afar.

Everything is silent here, there are no birds, no animals, no other people. All Milva can hear is a soft splashing of the stream.

“You can come closer,” Aglaïs says, nudging her shoulder. “I think he needs a human presence.”

It takes a few seconds for Milva to make up her mind. She stands and walks slowly across the clearing, to the man lying there. The ground is damp, but she doesn’t care. She finds a patch of the ground clear of the vines — she definitely doesn’t want to be mistaken for a patient — and sits cross-legged behind his head.

He’s pale, she notices, looking at the part of his face that isn’t covered. She can see that the skin underneath the vines is red, burnt. She remembers the whispers of the dryads right after he’s appeared, saying how damaged he is: burns on most of his body, broken spine, severe neural damage.

Aglaïs said he’d recover;  _ he’ll have his own weather station in his back, able to predict rain with six hours of lead time, _ she said. How recovery from these kinds of injuries is possible, Milva doesn’t know. All she sees is the pale face with faint scars on his forehead, the large nose, eyelids squeezed shut and short strands of white hair. He doesn’t have stubble: Milva guesses that’s because his body is more busy healing than producing hair.

She dares to touch the undamaged side of his face and he twitches, his lips forming some word, two syllables, so quiet she has no idea what he says.

* * *

Eskel doesn’t have a ceremony when he’s appointed as Captain of the Homicide Department four days after the bombings. He would have if he’d wanted, but he said they didn’t have time for this, so he only meets with the Mayor Velerad in the city hall, they shake hands and an hour later Eskel is back at work, welcomed by his colleagues, standing in silence at their desks.

There’s no cheering. It’s not that they’re not happy about Eskel’s promotion, because they all know he’ll be a good leader, as controlled and respected as he is: it’s the circumstances under which it happened. Eskel doesn’t want them to cheer, either. They all want to find the people responsible for the situation: the whole Department cramped in a half of one floor of the Internal Affairs station in the Royal Quarter, sharing the space with the Narcotics Dept.

The department knew Vesemir had a funeral, but Eskel and Lambert didn’t tell them where and when exactly. Witchers don’t get funerals with full honours. They’re lucky if there’s anything to bury, or rather burn on a pyre somewhere secluded, like Swamp cemetery at dawn, in Vesemir’s case.

Eskel stood there, his eyes irritated by the smoke, and he couldn’t help but feel Geralt’s absence. Geralt should have been there.

With Adon Carre killed, that’s two Wolf witchers lost in less than two weeks. Maybe three witchers, but they hope Geralt will return soon. They have no idea how many of them are still left.

Eskel welcomes the distraction of work. They, as the Department, still have to find their previous balance, settle in and return to their duties. They have their digital database, as they took care of making backups on an external server, but they lost every physical evidence they had stored in their safe in the basement of the old station. It endangers the ongoing cases, even those already in court. There’s some hope the heavy equipment will be able to dig it out and that something survived, but won’t happen any time soon. They lost their morgue. They’ve almost lost Rusty the Pathologist, too: St. Lebioda’s Hospital is still fighting for his life.

Eskel doesn’t think about their witcher stash under the station. Almost all of their witcher equipment: armours, swords, potions and bombs are lost, and they still have to do the Spring Cleaning night. Who will do it now? Geralt wasn’t in a condition for it even before the bombing, and with Vesemir dead there are only two of them to deal with dozens of drowners and kikimores under the city, not to mention a couple of archespores near Swamp. Lambert is still recovering from his jump out of the fourth-floor window.

They survived the Pogrom, they’ll survive this, too.

So, the newly appointed Captain of the Homicide Department of Vizima Police looks at his subordinates, their tired, pale and determined faces, nods to them and walks into his new office on the other side of the large room without a word. He can see Lambert somewhere in the background: he’s also standing, even though this event doesn’t concern him and Narcotics is in about as bad a situation as Homicide, although they didn’t lose their CO.

Triss gives Eskel five minutes of solitude in his almost bare office before she knocks on the door and steps in.

He’s sitting at the desk, elbows on the table, hands lying down in a position that suggests he just held his head in them; his hair is slightly mussed. He’s still dressed in the suit he went to the city hall in: it’s a very rare sight, so Triss takes a second to appreciate it. The computer on the desk is turned off. There are no trinkets here yet, no papers, no pictures on the office walls.

“Can I get straight to business?” Triss asks.

“Yes, please,” Eskel replies, his voice devoid of emotions. He’s probably too tired for them, having spent whole days and sometimes nights setting the Department up here or participating in the search efforts at the old station. As a witcher, he’s used to long hours and not sleeping properly for days, but he’s still drained: emotionally, too.

“I’m done at Geralt’s flat, the keys went to his friend, Julian Pankratz at the Chameleon—”

“I know they’re friends,” Eskel cuts in.

“We got the CCTV recordings from around the flat and the station, we got some matches with Rience’s and Roggeveen’s known associates,” Triss passes him a file.

“Leo Bonhart and Shirrú,” Eskel murmurs, reading it.

“Those two work mostly with Rience, there’s no direct connection to Roggeveen. Bonhart is a known mercenary. Shirrú, we don’t know if it’s his full name, used to be Scoia’tael; we connected him to an attack on a weapons transport in Verden a few years back. According to the footage, he was the one who went into the sewers under the station. Rience himself wasn’t at the bombing of the station, but he was noticed at the flat. There was also a driver on both locations, but he managed to stay mostly out of shot, so we’re still trying to identify him. There’s no-one in Rience’s, Bonhart’s or Shirrú’s files to match this man. We’re also looking for the van they used.”

Triss pauses and bites her lip; Eskel raises his eyes at her, the dark contact lenses hiding his cat pupils.

“What else?” he asks with a sigh like he knows bad news is coming.

“Vernon Roche from the Royals wants to talk to you. He’s in the conference room. I can bring him here if you want.”

Eskel sighs again and nods. Triss nods back at him and leaves.

Roche comes in a couple of minutes later. In that time, Eskel has managed to turn on his computer and open some files he had stored in a box by the office’s wall.

Roche, dressed in a black suit with black tie, looks like he attended a funeral.

Eskel stands up and they shake hands.

“Should I congratulate you for the promotion, Captain Garde?” Roche asks.

“No,” Eskel replies with a tight smile and points at the chair opposite him with his hand. Roche sits.

“I’m sorry for your loss. I’ve never met Captain Morhen, but I heard he was a decent man. Good leader.”

“He was our fencing teacher at Kaer Morhen, the only mentor we had left after the Pogrom,” Eskel says, “and an acting father for Geralt. I hope I can follow the example of his leadership.”

“There were statements about his heroism from some of the survivors,” Roche says, removes a small case from his jacket pocket and passes it to Eskel. “We estimate he saved at least ten people. Your involvement in the rescue wasn’t overlooked, either. The Royal Family asked me to pass these to you, Lambert Bell, Keira Metz and Triss Merigold; they’re waiting for the news about Geralt Haute. They wanted to hold a ceremony and it can still happen, but since we’re quiet about all these decorations and promotions, I suggested we waited for your word.”

Inside the case are medals made of gold, one of the highest civilian decorations in Temeria.

Eskel purses his lips.

“We don’t need the ceremony,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t feel like he deserves it. Vesemir, sure, he practically sacrificed himself. Geralt warned them all and was one of the last people to leave the station. Triss and Keira bought them a lot of time.

He and Lambert helped with triage and recovery efforts. Being level-headed in a face of a crisis is what they do, that’s how they’ve been trained. Lambert grumbled and complained about his ankle and ribs the whole time, but that’s just Lambert’s style.

He doubts that any of them, including Triss and Keira, will boast about the medals. His medal will go to his desk drawer. Lambert will probably throw his away. He already knows he’ll pass Vesemir’s to Geralt.

“I appreciate it, though,” Eskel adds. “Back to business,” he says, closes the medal case and puts it on the desk. “We’re focused on looking for the bombers and we already identified some of them: Rience and his associates. With Geralt gone, for now, we can’t deal with the threats against the Royal Family, so you’ll be probably grateful and unsurprised at all that we give the case to you, fully and willingly,” Eskel raises his eyebrow at Roche, who looks slightly taken aback. “Geralt started looking into Vermont Jonne, an indirect associate of Anzelm Aubry. He didn’t find anything specific, but it’s our last clue.”

“Did you know Haute planted civilians in the Castle as his spies? Two dopplers. They came to me after the first rumours that we’d take over the case.”

Eskel shrugs.

“So, we have three big things to solve at the same time: the threats, Roggeveen’s escape and now the bombings.” Eskel leans back in his chair. “Let’s face it, it’s all the same case, so treating them separately makes no sense. If we find something concerning your part of it, we, I mean the Police, promise to share the information. I hope you’ll return the favour.”

“Of course,” Roche nods. “And please, let us know when Haute returns. He’s the only witness of both bombings and deeply involved with... everything, really.”

Eskel nods in agreement and then gives Roche a flash drive.

“Geralt’s files on the case,” he explains.

Roche takes it, stands up, shakes Eskel’s hand and leaves the office, leaving Eskel to come to terms with the fact that he’s the boss now.

* * *

_ FAMILY MATTERS? _

_ So, the previous CO of the Homicide Dept of Vizima Police died in the bombing of the Temple Quarter station. He was given a posthumous commendation for the fact that he allegedly saved some people during the bombing. _

_ Other people that got commendations for their actions during the attack are the dead CO’s second in command, now his successor; also, shiny medals went to two sorceresses and the officer that started the alarm. _

_ Fun fact: the dead CO was a witcher. His successor is also a witcher, from the same school. Everything stays in the family, doesn’t it? Sorry, petty humans! No leadership chances in that department for you for the next hundred years! _

_ I have some questions, though. The two sorceresses that managed to slow down the explosions, first of all, used MAGIC. Since when does the Royal Family praise the use of magic? Sure, you could say that they saved lives with it, but, second of all, they still failed. Twenty-three people still died. _

_ The officer that warned the station about the attack? I have questions about him, too. It’s the famous Geralt Haute. How did he know about the bomb under the station? He was alone when he set off the alarm. And why, the last time he was seen, was he speeding away from the station, straight to his flat, when he was the target of another bombing? Why did he go there? To look for his daughter? She’s a high school student, she should have been at school, why didn’t he look for her there? _

_ Asking for a friend. _

* * *

“My people called,” Straggen says as he enters the cavern. Vilgefortz manages to not jump as he’s shaken from his meditative state, sitting at the centre of the chalk circle. “I might need to go to the meeting point in Turlough Hills, I need to deal with someone.”

“Can’t they deal with them themselves?” Vilgefortz asks and stands up slowly.

“I told them to let me know when they catch her. The bitch decided to steal some of the stones you ordered us to find for you. Some of the uglier ones, I admit, but it wasn’t the first time she’s been that stupid and it will be her last. I’ll cut her throat myself.”

Vilgefortz turns slowly towards Straggen. He’s pretty accustomed to the magic projection of sight; maintaining it is tiring, but now he can see the kinds of clothes Straggen is wearing, eating is much easier now that he doesn’t have to rely on touch or someone’s help.

The stones he ordered are emeralds, as similar in colour as possible as his own eyes had been. He knows he can expect them in a day or two, about a kilogram he can choose from.

He’s disappointed that, with the magical sight, he has no energy to put some illusion on his burned face. He knows that Straggen is repulsed every time he sees him; while Straggen’s opinion on his looks doesn’t matter, he’d prefer to invoke fear, not disgust.

“How old is she?” he asks.

“Nineteen, twenty… Why?” Straggen asks and puts his hands into his trousers pockets.

“Hmm, close enough…” Vilgefortz murmurs, then ‘looks’ up at Straggen and smiles. “If she stole my stones, she technically stole from me, didn’t she? Bring her here. I’ll deal with her.”

* * *

The white-haired man is moved to a hut at the edge of the healing clearing even before he regains consciousness, five days into his treatment. The hut’s platform is low, much lower than usual in Brokilon, and a ramp, not spiral stairs, leads from the ground to the porch. The tiny house is comfortable, though, warm, fully furnished, including a hammock he now spends his whole days in: it’s easy to move the hammock from the bedroom to the porch for some fresh air, with him still in it. He still looks terrible, his whole body dotted with black spots where the vines penetrated the skin.

Milva stays close to him as much as she can, sitting on the floor of his bedroom and tinkering with her bow or some part for her aircraft, talking to him about everything: Brokilon technology, the methods they used for his treatment, people she met outside the forest. Some days, she’s so tired in the evening after a whole day of running errands that she finds herself waking up on the man’s hut floor the next morning, although she’s careful not to do that once he becomes more coherent. She doesn’t want him to see how drawn she is to him.

A week after he landed on their heads, he wakes up for real, and because he’s a stubborn bastard, he tries to move around. He can’t really, not as much as he’d probably like to, so Milva’s there to help him, with Aglaïs’ blessing. Aglaïs visits him once a day, but it’s Milva who’s assigned with delivering his food and helping him move; she has a good excuse to spend time with him.

He falls asleep in the middle of his meal more than once. All Milva can do then is try to make him comfortable, because there’s no way she can drag him to his bed: he’s much taller than her and he’s barely healed from the spine injury, so she has to be careful.

She knows now that he’s not entirely human. How that little fact got past her for so long, she has no idea. His name in Elder Speech and the fact that he survived whatever happened to him should be pretty telling, but the final clue was his eyes. He’s a witcher, a monster hunter. She’s heard of them, but he’s the first one she’s met. If anything she’s heard is true, it fully explains why he’s still alive and walking.

She doesn’t discuss it with him.

She spends whole days with him, sitting on the porch, listening to the stream of the Waters of Brokilon flow past them. She tinkers: a buckle needs fixing, a pulley in her bow needs readjusting, a spare engine valve needs cleaning… They sit about three metres apart from each other, pretending to not pay attention to what the other is doing.

_ It’s safe that way, _ she thinks.

He’s sitting in the lounge chair on the porch of his hut, eyes closed, breathing deep, not asleep, but also not fully alert.

“What’s your name?” he asks suddenly and it takes a lot of willpower for her to not jump and lose the part she’s fixing. His voice is hoarse but stronger than yesterday when it was only a whisper.

“Maria Barring, the dryads call me Milva,” she replies, glancing at him. He’s looking at her with those cat eyes, more alert than she’s ever seen them.

“Should I call you Milva?” he asks.

She nods.

There’s a pause. Their silence turns uncomfortable.

“What’s yours?” she can’t help but ask. “I heard the dryads call you Gwynbleidd, but you’re a Northerner, so I don’t think you’d have a name in Elder Speech.”

“My name’s Geralt. The elves and other Elder Races like to call me the White Wolf, though.”

So that’s where the name came from. White because of his hair; she’s seen the wolf medallion on his bedside table: must be his witcher school.

“You’re not a dryad,” he says.

“Nice observation skills, monster hunter,” she snaps with an eye-roll and then blushes, but her potential apology is interrupted by his snort. He’s not offended.

He then asks her about her bow and where the part she’s fixing comes from, so she’s happy to indulge and not talk about her past. The bow and the aircraft are her favourite topics, she can talk about them for hours; she’s not surprised that at one point she looks at him and finds him asleep.

With consciousness during the day come nightmares at night. All the strength he managed to regain seems to be depleted. She finds out soon what word he whispered that day when she touched him lying among the healing vines; now it’s not a whisper, it’s a name bellowed at the top of his lungs, desperate and full of pain:  _ Ciri. _

And because she’s a noisy brat, as she’s heard sometimes, she asks him about it one day.

He’s sitting on the porch of the hut again, not in the chair, but on the floor, his legs dangling over the edge, feet bare. He eats his stew slowly like he lost his appetite. He doesn’t look at her after she asks her question and she starts to think he won’t answer, but then she hears his soft and pained:

“She’s my daughter. She’s missing.”

Milva swallows thickly.

“I dream about her,” he continues, “about what she feels, how lost she is. It doesn’t really matter. I have reasons to believe she’s in the hands of the person who wants to destroy me,” Geralt adds and Milva feels sick.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I hope she’s alright and you’ll get her back home safely.”

“That’s what I plan to do once I leave here,” Geralt grumbles.

“Aglaïs is worried about you, we know you don’t sleep well. Maybe she could give you something…”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Doubt anything would work, besides, knowing my luck, knocking me out would mess with other aspects of my healing, so it’s a lose-lose situation. Pretty used to that.”

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye and sighs, silently frustrated there’s nothing she can do for him here.

* * *

Regis thanks whatever gods there are for the moment of respite. All wounded from the bombing of the station are stable and on their way to recovery. It was a week of very hard work and even he started to feel tired.

He sighs, taking in Vizima’s streets, illuminated for the night. He’s sitting atop the old city walls near the gate connecting the Temple Quarter with the Dike, so he has the perfect view of a big part of the city and Old Vizima.

He hasn’t been home since the bombings. It’s not far from the hospital to his flat, but he’s not very keen on facing the empty rooms, knowing that Geralt is out of his reach and Ciri is missing. There’s no-one he can call. No-one to joke with. No-one to watch movies with, like during that last night before the bombings, the three of them, cramped on his tiny couch, eating crisps and laughing at plotholes of some stupid movie that was on the TV at the time.

Ciri is Geralt’s, but Regis has become attached to the unruly teenager. She’s a good girl, smart, independent, she knows how to protect herself. Regis has no idea how much it is worth if she’s somewhere with no-one to turn to for help, though. She’s always had support in her independence.

At least he has friends at the Chameleon. Dandelion and Zoltan put themselves together, finally relieving Priscilla of her new and unexpected duties. Dandelion’s partner is moving back to Kovir, where she’s from, for some time. She doesn’t feel safe here and she has a way to leave the country legally. Dandelion’s not happy about her leaving, but he’s the one who suggested it and then pushed her into doing.

The dopplers disappeared four days after the bombings. Dandelion murmured something about them returning to the Castle.

Everyone is trying to get their lives back to normal; only he, a centuries-old vampire, is still mourning his missing partner as if Geralt is his mate. Technically, they’re not mated: Regis didn’t have the courage to ask for that yet, but he hopes they’re approaching that point in their relationship. It’s like asking to get married in the human world, only with vampires it’s for life, so after Geralt’s death, he’d be left alone for eternity.

Earlier today, Countess Anna Kameny came to the hospital, the visit a part of the publicity for her charity; she talked to the medical staff and patients. Regis isn’t against this kind of event as long as something good for the patients comes out of it. He has no reason to complain about the Countess: money she donated and other kinds of help are greatly appreciated. She’s far more about proper help than empty promises.

_ She’s a non-human, _ Regis thinks, remembering watching her walk the hospital’s corridors. She uses quality perfume, but Regis knows how to recognise when it’s used as a camouflage. He also remembers Geralt talking about her, how supportive she is for non-humans during the committee meetings. It’s such a coincidence that most of the supporters of racial equality are non-humans. It’s kind of sad, actually.

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy,” he hears a female voice behind his back. He can feel more than hear the person’s steps and soon he’s joined by the object of his contemplation. Anna Kameny sits on the wall next to him, her legs hanging over the edge. She wears a long dress, with long sleeves and a high collar, made of flowing material, shining in the moonlight, probably silk or something similar. It’s simple and suits her features well. She puts her stilettos on the ledge between them. “Why do you ask people to call you by your first name?” she asks lightly. “Terzieff-Godefroys were a mighty clan among our tribe.”

She’s in her half-vampire form: mostly human, but her ears are pointed, her nose slightly flat, face gaunt and pale, fingernails pointed, but not elongated into claws.

It answers all questions he had about her.

“My clan name is something reserved for people that matter. The rest can call me Regis as if it’s my surname,” he replies as he glances at her.

Geralt calls him Regis most of the time, as do their friends and Ciri. They know it’s his first name, they realise the significance of his full name and understand why he keeps it a secret.

These little five letters have such a different meaning to everyone.

He hates it when he’s called Emiel.

“And you? Did your late husband know who he was making a countess?” he asks.

“He did,” Countess Anna Kameny shrugs. “He turned from ‘beloved husband’ to ‘late husband’ once he decided to use that little fact against me, right after the Edict.”

Regis hums. He’s sure that the death of Count Kameny was as unsuspicious as possible. Vampires know how to do that.

“So what is your real name, Countess Kameny?” he asks politely.

“Annalica,” she replies with a smile, showing her fangs. Her face becomes slightly more vampiric. “I didn’t come here to talk about our names, though,” she adds and he doesn’t comment on the fact that she didn’t reveal her clan. It doesn’t matter, anyway. “I’ve seen you with Geralt Haute at the Castle, but I had no chance to talk to you before. I just want to say that I’m sorry for what’s happened to him. He seems like a good man.”

“Thank you for using present tenses and for your concern,” Regis gives her a nod in thanks.

“I hope we’ll meet him again, and soon.”

Regis glances at her, eyebrow raised.

“Oh, I know that I should criticise your relationship with a witcher, but he’s as good a mate as anyone, you’re both adults and well aware what the other is capable of,” she waves her hand. “It’s your choice and knowing Mister Haute, I can only keep my fingers crossed, as humans say it, for the longevity of your relations.”

“Thank you.”

“You can tell him I’m a vampire if he ever asks,” Annalica smiles again. “But not that I was involved in my husband's cardiac arrest.”

“Of course,” Regis snorts. “I doubt he’ll ever ask about that.” He pauses, glancing at her profile. She’s staring out, at the city, turned towards the Temple Quarter, her eyes black and shining. “Why are you so involved in charity and politics here?” he asks finally. “Our kind tends to stay away from human affairs.”

She gives him a sideways look. Her dress flaps in the night breeze.

“Like you do?” she raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ve spent enough time doing nothing and living a comfortable life, now I’ve decided to spend some of my husband’s money to do something good for this world. I’m amazed by humans in that superior way of higher vampires: how such meaningless creatures can accomplish so much in their short lifetimes. I can mess about a little and benefit from it, too. Why do you ask?”

“I had a friend once, who became a patron of an orphanage only to use it as a blood source,” he admits.

“Orianna? Pah!” she snorts. “She’s a bruxa,” she adds with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Surely, children’s blood is particularly sweet, but when in need, I much more prefer legal sources.” She shrugs again, nonchalant. 

Regis nods and they sit, two higher vampires on a city wall, watching the emptying streets, observing the moon’s travel across the sky.

* * *

“Let me go!” a shrill female voice rings across the cave. Vilgefortz sighs and turns from the table towards the entrance.

The girl he and Straggen talked about two days ago is pushed into the cave, with Straggen in tow. From what Vilgefortz can see, she’s quite tall and slim, her braided hair reaches her shoulders. She’s dressed in tight trousers and a t-shirt, both sweaty, crumpled and torn here and there. Her hair is a mess, too, some strands getting loose from the braid.

The girl stops at the sight of him, rooted in place. Straggen has to push her forward and he does it with enough force to make her trip; she doesn’t fall, though.

Straggen leads her towards Vilgefortz with his hand on her neck. She’s stiff with fear, breathing so fast she’s almost hyperventilating.

They stop in front of Vilgefortz and she takes a quick look up and down his body. Every morning, he makes sure he looks as normal and as close to his appearance before the arrest as possible, so he wears dark blue suit trousers and a white button-down shirt, but no tie and no jacket; his shoes are polished leather. He knows the look doesn’t fit into a cavern under an abandoned castle, but that’s his life now.

“So, you stole from me and thought you’d get away with it?” Vilgefortz asks the girl, his tone mild. She’s shaking like a leaf, making soft keening noises she’s probably unaware of.

“Fr— from you?” she chokes out.

“Those emeralds were for me. Judging by your reaction, you know who I am.”

She nods, Straggen’s hand still on her neck.

“Mister Straggen here wanted to cut your throat, but I might have other use for you,” Vilgefortz nods at the man. “You might even live through it.”

The girl keens again.

“What’s your name?” Vilgefortz asks.

“Why do you care?” the girl chokes out.

Straggen puts his hand in her hair and shakes her.

“Angoulême!” the girl yelps, grabbing at Straggen’s hand.

“Well, Angoulême, welcome to my humble abode,” Vilgefortz says and waves his hand at the rickety door to an empty store-room, across from the cave’s entrance. Straggen nods and drags the girl there, closing the door with a key once she’s inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the writer! (I know the fic is done. Me posting it here isn't, you know. ;) )


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milva outgrumps Geralt (not for long though), who gets a visitor and a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that Milva flies a [Cessna 172S](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cessna_172#/media/File:Cessna_172S_Skyhawk_SP,_Private_JP6817606.jpg), but the exact appearance of her aircraft doesn’t matter: it’s just small, with propeller engine at the front and fits four people in the cockpit.
> 
> VERY MILD SPOILERS (more like a suggestion of a spoiler tbh) about the Hansa in the end notes!

Milva doesn’t look back as she circles her “little wings” over Brokilon, heading north. To her left, she can see the Great Sea with the silver line of the Adalatte river flowing towards it, and the skyscrapers of Kerack. Soon she passes the peninsula of Bremervoord and Cidaris and turns east over Gors Velen to head for Vizima.

She’s in a foul mood. She’s angry at the White Wolf, but still, Eithné asked her to bring him some news from home. She really didn’t want to fly to Vizima, that was the very reason she had the argument with Geralt, but there’s little she wouldn’t do for the dryads. Geralt doesn’t matter here, but at least he’ll owe her.

Milva scoffs. Of course he matters here, that’s why she agreed to go. She still cares about him and their argument was only an excuse for her to isolate herself from him. Caring is the worst thing you can do. Caring brings trouble, so she worked very hard to stop, but then Eithné told her Geralt was a friend of Brokilon since long before Milva was born, the dryads owe him a debt and they have to use Milva to pay it.

“Didn’t you help him enough?” Milva argued. “You saved his life already!”

Eithné just looked at her.

Milva grips the wheel so tight her knuckles turn white. When she notices, she forces herself to loosen the grip.

“A chameleon and a little yellow flower, very helpful,” she grumbles as she remembers the clues she was given before she flew off. Geralt didn’t speak to anyone anymore, so Aglaïs and Eithné had to read his mind in his sleep to get anything from him to help them find his friends. Milva wonders how happy he will be about it once he finds out.

It’s also the main reason she was sent to Vizima: Aglaïs believes news from home will help him heal. He’s sick with worry over his friends and daughter he’s been cut from for almost two weeks already; it also justifies his outburst when they first talked about the possibility of her going to Vizima.

That topic came out during one of their days spent together. She helped him with some exercise: she lent him one of her older bows with a weaker draw so he could practice with his arms. He admitted he was still dreaming about Ciri; she felt lost, but she was safe, but that wasn’t enough to calm him down, so he asked her to go find his friends in Vizima and talk to them. She said no straight away, she didn’t want to go to the big city and she had more reasons to protest than she would ever admit to anyone. He insisted, she said something rude to him, then he paused, stared at her, his pupils round but wide, and he drawled out through his teeth:

“Then why are you here? I don’t need you for anything.”

She left in a huff, leaving the bow with him. The next morning Eithné came to her home in Craag An.

“What happened?” she asked. “The first thing Gwynbleidd said to me was that he was sorry and he wanted to apologise to you.”

“Really,” she growled.

“He needs you.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she argued.

Five minutes later she knew she’d be flying to Vizima. She set out the same day.

A chameleon and a yellow flower in Vizima, the capital city of Temeria, population: fifty thousand. Where is she supposed to go to look, to a city park? A zoo? Is there even a zoo in Vizima? What the hell is she even looking for?

The aircraft’s engine gives a little stutter.

“Don’t you dare,” she growls and the stuttering stops, replaced with the healthy engine sounds.

And Coinneach of course had to add his three pennies. She could see it in his eyes as he approached her as she was preparing for takeoff on the airstrip hidden within Craag An ruins; he was carrying a bag and had this weird look on his face.

She didn’t want to know what was in the bag. She flat out refused when he asked her to take it to Vizima, to some friend of his, then tried to guilt-trip her and she was close to punching his stupid elvish face. She knew taking him to Brokilon three years ago was a mistake she couldn’t correct now; the first mistake of many she made shortly afterwards.

She cared about him then, too. Now she hates him.

She steers, trying to have the constant visual of the landmarks. On the ground, she recognises the shape of Tvalo and she knows it’s time to turn north and start descending towards the Murky Waters airstrip once she sees Vizima Lake. It’s not the first time she flies to Vizima, but she’s never had to cross the old city walls and look for someone before.

There’s the usual chatter in her headphones, but she ignores most of it, only replying when she’s addressed specifically. The skies are clear, the air traffic low. She uses a less direct path than commercial flights, so once she lets out most of her anger and irritation, she can appreciate the sights and the freedom her little aircraft gives her.

It’s the best kind of freedom, she knows, limited only by petrol prices. Those aren’t too much of a problem, all it takes for her to make some money is to fly out to Brugge or Sodden, make a couple of absolutely legal transports and she’s free as a bird for a month.

Illegal transports would keep her safe financially for much longer if she cared only about the money and not the risks. She knows that too well: there are solid reasons she doesn’t want to land in Cintra ever again.

She first met Coinneach in Cintra.

She can see the flicker of waters of Vizima Lake on the horizon now and she calls out to Murky Waters on the radio.

“Murky Waters, CSN172 asking permission to land.”

She repeats it twice to a bit of static, then she receives:

“Hello, CSN172, permission granted, stay on your current course.”

Murky Waters Airport is built south to the little town, it consists of only one airstrip and one terminal. It’s used by private aeroplanes and little aircrafts like hers; the big commercial airlines use Vizima’s main airport, north of the lake. Milva likes Murky Waters: it’s small, everyone knows each other, the mechanics are good and cheap, landings and takeoffs are performed with minimal fuss, just as she likes it.

She lands with no trouble and parks on the indicated spot. A mechanic runs to her.

“Any trouble? Need fuel?” he asks.

“Hi, Gert,” she says. “No trouble that I can’t deal with,” she replies. That engine stutter could be problematic, but she knows her little wings enough to be able to look at the engine once she’s back to Brokilon. “And full tank, please,” she smiles sweetly at him.

“What brings you here anyway?”

“Long story, but maybe you could help me?”

Another mechanic joins them with the petrol hose.

“What a beauty,” the man murmurs, stroking the side of the aircraft and gets to work.

“I’m looking for a… chameleon? In Vizima?” Milva says reluctantly, fully aware of how it sounds.

Gert snorts.

“I’d say look in the zoo, but we don’t have one,” he replies.

The second mechanic perks up.

“There’s an inn, the Chameleon, in the Trade Quarter,” he says.

“Thank you,” Milva smiles. She can’t mention the yellow flower to them or she’ll sound like a total idiot. She turns back to Gert: “Can I borrow your bike for the day?”

It’s a long way from Murky Waters to the old city and she doesn’t want to waste her meagre money on a taxi. Parking her aircraft here will cost her enough.

“Can you even ride it?” Gert asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Milva shrugs.

“Well, I can fly small aircrafts, how hard can it be?”

“One dimension less, don’t forget,” Gert replies with a lopsided smile, but he throws her the keys. She salutes him and walks away. “And I’ll add it to your bill!” he shouts after her.

“Wouldn’t expect less from you,” she shouts back as she turns to him and walks backwards. She points at the second mechanic, still admiring her aircraft. “By the way, I bought this little beauty with my hard-earned money, so keep your paws off it.”

She gets a laugh in reply.

* * *

Triss is appointed as the leading officer on the bombings; since her case is so closely connected with Roggeveen’s escape and the threats against the Royal Family, she’s in frequent contact with Roche at the Castle and Philippa Eilhart, who finally made her presence in the city official with the local law enforcement. She shares Triss’ desk on occasion.

Thirteen days after the bombings the atmosphere at the Castle is very nervous like everyone is waiting for something. The committee meetings are postponed until the situation stabilises. Ciri’s missing case has been made international, but there are no leads. Triss’ investigation is pretty much stuck, too: they’re now sure about Rience’s, Shirrú’s and Bonhart’s identities, but they have only the name of the driver — Declan — and no history, no surname, so they quickly conclude it’s just a pseudonym. Interestingly, when Triss and Philippa try to dig deeper into Declan’s identity, Vattier de Rideaux from the Nilfgaardian Embassy contacts them and demands they report everything they find about the man while blocking them from learning more about him in their databases.

They all know de Rideaux works for the Nilfgaardian Intelligence, so Declan must be either a spy or a person of intense interest for the organisation. Philippa declares she’ll run the man through Redanian Secret Service archives. “Dijkstra will have something to do,” she adds with a smirk.

The van Rience’s group used is found abandoned in the Outskirts, cleaned of fingerprints; the registration plates were fake and the VIN has been removed from every place it can usually be found.

Interesting news comes from Brugge: the criminal group led by Homer ‘Nightingale’ Straggen becomes more active in the area.

“Southern Temeria,” Philippa murmurs when Roche reveals the information through the video call. She can feel Triss’ gaze on her. They are sitting in the only empty conference room at the station at the moment.

“Straggen and Rience worked together a few times, we’re looking for his connection to Roggeveen,” Roche says.

“Rience is most likely still in Vizima,” Triss says. “I think we’ve learnt everything we could on our part of the investigation, we’re still waiting for the real name of this Declan figure. That leaves us with the threats and the silence around them.”

“We’re stuck with the Jonne detail,” Roche admits. “I have no idea what role he played in the whole intrigue, who killed him and why.”

Triss looks at him through the video call, her eyebrow raised.

“No wonder Geralt was able to get rid of the Royals from Vizima,” she snaps. “You’re hopeless and of no help.”

Roche opens his mouth to protest, but Philippa cuts him off:

“Let’s agree everything is connected: Roggeveen in southern Temeria, Straggen in Brugge, the mystery Declan, Rience still in Vizima, Jonne killed… Find out what use any of them would have of Jonne, even if his connection is only through Aubry. I won’t be surprised if all of this falls together once Haute is back, though. He’s as bad about his connections and knowledge as Roggeveen, it seems.”

“The only difference between them is what they use the connections for?” Triss asks, her voice dripping with scepticism.

“Admit it: Haute on the dark side is a scary prospect,” Philippa shrugs.

She, Triss and Roche look at each other, ending the call soon after that.

* * *

_ Boredom is unhealthy, _ Vilgefortz thinks as he plays with two emeralds in his hand, like they’re a pair of balls used to relax, to occupy your hands with. The stones are perfectly cut into a round shape and about the size of an eyeball. He’s maybe two complicated spells away from being able to put them into his eye sockets, which means maybe two or three days and he’ll finally have eyes.

Still, nothing can be done about his burns. He uses too much magic already and he can only thank the corrupted place of Power and its shield around the castle that he hasn’t been discovered yet.

Every time he uses Vidort’s magic he wonders what Rience has done to it to make it safe for him.

There is no news from Vizima. Haute is still missing. The girl in the locked pantry is now bound and gagged after he’s gotten tired of her screaming and cursing. Straggen was very happy to restrain the girl and he wasn’t delicate: Vilgefortz told him that he wanted her alive only to keep her ‘fresh’; after hearing that, the girl chose to finally shut up, gag or no gag.

A few more days and a lot will change. He expects Haute to resurface any day now and then they’ll be able to continue putting some fire under the witcher. The idea of the website turned out to be better than he’d expected. Almost two weeks after the bombings and the police has nothing solid, nobody’s been arrested, so it will be easy to suggest that the whole law enforcement in Vizima lies on the shoulders of one non-human with a questionable reputation.

They no longer need Aubry. The man is useless anyway, fussy and irritating; he can’t even serve as a distraction, because the Royals aren’t that stupid and since the Redanian Secret Service helps them, they’re all aware that the Royal Castle in Vizima will be the next place Vilgefortz might reveal himself.

He won’t, at least not himself. He has people for that.

Vilgefortz stops walking around the cavern and turns towards the centre of it. The chalk circle needs some adjustments. He wonders how far he can go with his spells before they show as a blip on the map.

It’s worth it. Straggen has his people here, storming the castle won’t be that easy with rivers on two sides and a bog on the other.

* * *

Milva huffs as she walks the streets of the Trade Quarter, looking for the Chameleon inn. It took only a minute within the city walls for her to remember why she hates big cities. It could be worse: over a hundred thousand people live in Novigrad, Vizima is only half of that. Still, she curses the crowds and the fact that the inn is right in the centre of the city.

And Vizima is indeed crowded, the afternoon hours full of people shopping after work or simply going home. Milva left the bike in the Outskirts when she realised that manoeuvring in this mass of people wasn’t something to look forward to. She’s used to walking, so she just goes on foot, trying to not bump into too many people.

She finds the Chameleon easily. The main hall is as crowded as were the streets, people gathering for dinner.

“A yellow flower,” Milva murmurs as she looks around. She approaches the counter.

“Looking for something, lass?” a burly man with greasy moustache plants himself next to her. She recoils, then stops herself before she can snap.

“The witcher’s friend?” Milva says with a raised eyebrow, then turns towards the bartender behind the counter, hoping the woman will notice her soon and save her. She can defend herself, but she doesn’t want to be forced to do it.

“You’ll find less and less of them here, witchers messed up big time recently,” the man says and slides even closer to her. She wants to punch him.

“Haven’t heard,” she shrugs.

The man snorts.

“Where do you live, under a rock?”

“No, in a forest, I still have better manners than you,” she barks and stomps her foot on his. She knows she can’t do much damage with the flat heels she’s wearing, but it’s enough to surprise him.

The man yelps and jumps back.

“Oh, you—” the man snarls and rushes at her, but he’s stopped by two simultaneous harsh voices:

“Franz, back off!”

The voices belong to the waitress and a blond man in his mid-forties. The man gestures at a dwarf, who stands between Milva and Franz, crosses his arms on his chest and taps his foot.

“You were given a warning already and you know what it means,” the dwarf says sternly. “Next time I see you here, I’ll throw you out. Now, piss off!”

“Thank you, Zoltan,” the blond man says and turns to Milva. “So, you’re looking for a witcher’s friends and you’re from a forest?”

The dwarf, Zoltan, gasps.

She eyes the blond man.

“I guess you know what this is about, then,” she says carefully, feeling the dwarf’s eyes on her. “I was told to look for a chameleon and a little yellow flower, how stupid it may sound.”

“My name’s Julian Pankratz, friends call me Dandelion,” the blond man says with a certain edge in his voice. “I’m one of the certain witcher’s best friends, Zoltan here being another.”

“Yellow flower, oh, good,” she sighs with relief. “Which one of you can come with me? I was told to bring the witcher some news and taking you is much easier and faster—”

“No, wait,” Pankratz stops her. “Listen, a lot has happened recently and—”

“That’s why I want to take you with me back to him, I don’t have time to—”

“You need to find the time, lass,” Zoltan drawls. “You’re here to bring news to him, but also you have news  _ of _ him, don’t you? And the two of us are not the only people who’d like to listen to it.”

Milva rolls her eyes.

“I’d rather get back as soon as possible and not fly in the night,” she argues. “If we go now—”

“Or you can stay, we’ll get everyone interested to listen to the news, you can have dinner, spend the night, I’ll tell everyone I’ll be off and we’ll fly in the morning,” Pankratz says. “Wait, what do you mean by ‘fly’?” He frowns.

“I have my own aircraft and I can’t stay!” she tries again. “I don’t want half of the city knowing I’m here, parking on the airstrip is expensive enough and—”

“I’ll pay for it!” Pankratz cuts in, now agitated. “I’ll pay for the aircraft costs, I’ll fly with you, but please, wait until tomorrow morning, alright? Stay here for the night, the room and food’s on me, as long as you please, please tell us how Geralt is,” Pankratz’s practically begging, she can almost see tears in his eyes. “He has a partner here, Regis, I’ll let him know you’re here, it will be just the three of us. People died, Geralt’s daughter is missing, we’ve had no news about them for almost two weeks, and we’re all worried sick. Just, please.”

Milva pauses. She didn’t plan to stay the night, but then what did she want to do? The idea of finding some friend of Geralt, plucking them out of their life to drag them back to Brokilon on a minute’s notice wasn’t realistic, she has to admit. She just hates this city and the crowds, she wants to hide, or better, run away as far as possible, preferably back to Brokilon.

Then she looks into Pankratz’s and Zoltan’s pleading eyes and she knows she can’t do that to them. 

“Alright,” she sighs. “Just don’t make me stay here, I mean on this floor.”

“I’ll find you a room and bring you some food,” Pankratz offers in earnest. “Anything you want? Or you hate?”

“Nah, if it’s free I’ll eat almost anything,” Milva declares and smiles. The smile Pankratz returns is happy, radiant and relieved.

“Great. Please go with Zoltan upstairs, I’ll come by later. What do I call you?”

“Milva.”

“Nice to meet you, Milva. Call me Dandelion.”

* * *

Bonhart and Shirrú start packing after the call Rience has gotten about the evacuation into the woods. Cahir wasn’t in the room when the call happened, so he pretends he doesn’t know anything. He packs up, too, but discreetly. All he needs is money, a gun and as many bullet clips as he can hide in his pockets. No-one came to him to tell him to be ready to go, so Cahir can easily assume he’s going to be left here.

“Damn it,” he mutters as he checks his phone and the little video feed from the hidden camera in the other room. Everything’s going to shit and it’s not even his fault. He knew it would happen, he’s been pushing his luck for the last year and this is the closest he got to Rience.

Ah, well. It’s time to leave anyway, he’d rather not be arrested before he got what he wanted. He has other ways of staying close to the rogue sorcerer, he doesn’t have to live with him.

Cahir glances at the phone again. Bonhart and Shirrú are very busy talking. Bonhart checks his gun and loads it. Rience left earlier today, probably to prepare their new hideout. This flat isn’t safe anymore, too many people saw Rience and Bonhart in the neighbourhood after their photos have been released to the public. Police still can’t identify Cahir, the pictures were too grainy to put him in a serious danger of being recognised, which is very convenient: he is the one sent shopping most of the time. 

Cahir locks the screen, puts it in his jeans pocket and goes to the window. It’s small, used to be boarded from the outside, but in the weeks they’ve lived here Cahir created an escape route no-one knew about. Their hideout is a flat in an abandoned townhouse overlooking the city walls in the Royal Quarter, two steps from Roper’s Gate; outside the window Cahir is now checking — and about three meters below — flows the Ismena River. Not only the townhouse’s location makes it a perfect hideout, but also the buildings adjacent to it are abandoned, too. It’s quiet and discreet; now they have to leave it.

The three houses were a part of Vermont Jonne’s very illegal activities and Cahir can’t help but wonder why the police haven’t visited them here yet.

Cahir can hear steps outside his room.  _ This is it.  _ He crouches under the window, to make it look like he was rising from the floor as the door opens.

Bonhart steps in, a gun with a silencer in his hand. Cahir slowly straightens. Bonhart aims at his head and pulls the trigger.

Cahir’s body springs up and backwards, through the window, into the river.

* * *

Shirrú glances outside without sticking his head out. Nobody noticed anything. Nobody saw a body of a man flowing, face down, downstream towards the Castle.

Job done.

* * *

Nobody saw said man move and swim to the shore, only to disappear into the night.

* * *

Milva and Dandelion don’t talk during the flight to Brokilon. After a few alarmed yelps at the beginning, Dandelion falls silent, staring straight ahead and hugging his travel bag. Milva doesn’t try to break the silence, lost in thought herself.

Only Dandelion, Zoltan and Emiel call-me-Regis were present at yesterday evening’s little gathering at the Chameleon. She answered all the questions she could, and then there was a debate about who should fly with her back to Brokilon the next morning.

She knew Regis should be the one to go — while Dandelion and Zoltan were Geralt’s good friends, Regis emanated a true lover’s worry, but she had no idea how the dryads would welcome him. After a short argument between Regis and Dandelion, Milva emphasised that it was a yellow flower that had led her here. Regis didn’t look surprised, disappointed or jealous that it was Dandelion who was found in Geralt’s thoughts and not him; at Milva’s question, he murmured something about defence mechanisms and left it at that.

Dandelion was terrified mostly about his safety, first from the dryads (‘Will they even let me in?’), then during the flight; she had to point out that she’d be on board the aircraft, too, so it had to be safe. During the flight, she prays that the engine refrains from making any weird sounds. Flying on her own is different from having passengers, so she avoids it if she can: she knows her little wings aren’t very reliable right now.

The weather is good, though, skies are clear, so they make quick progress on their way from Vizima to Craag An. Milva reports their arrival five minutes before reaching their destination. She thought that Dandelion would relax and start admiring the views, but he’s tense and non-responsive for the whole flight. He flinches when he sees where Milva intends to land — in the mouth of a cave in the middle of a dense forest.

“Oh, stop it,” she snaps. “You have no idea how many times I’ve done it.”

“Yeah, exactly,” he murmurs.

Milva rolls her eyes and stops herself before she threatens him to throw him out before they land.

The landing is seamless, as usual in this weather. Fauve, one of the dryads, is waiting for them at the far end of the cave serving as the airstrip.

“Welcome back, Sor’ca,” she says in their dialect when they disembark and looks at Dandelion, who leans against the side of the plane, trying to regain his balance.

“If you weren’t so tense during the flight, you’d be fine now,” Milva says to him.

“What is scary is that we have to get back to Vizima somehow,” he replies, catching his breath.

Milva smiles at him, all teeth and wry humour, and doesn’t reply.

“You must be the witcher’s friend,” Fauve says to him in accented Common. “I’ll take you to him. Stay close to me and do not wander off,” she orders.

Dandelion only nods and goes after her. Milva stays by her little wings: she has an engine to fix. It performed nicely during the flight, but she’d rather avoid nasty surprises in the future.

Meanwhile, Dandelion is led through the forest along a cobblestone path. He’s allowed to look around and he quickly realises how the treetops hide the fact that the forest is bustling with life. From above it just looks like a great sea of green; from the ground, when his eyesight adjusts to the limited sunlight, he can see the platforms built in the trees, rope bridges connecting them, and on the platforms are houses with gardens. Winding stairs lead from the ground to the platforms, while ropes hanging from them provide a quick way down. There are other ropes, or cables, strung between taller trees, with pods hung on them, dashing with great speed.

Dandelion notices that the platforms, houses and stairs weren’t built from cut trees, but were grown into the desired shapes. The discovery leaves him in awe: the patience and time it required are unspeakable. He can see other bits and pieces of the technology that is unique to Brokilon: for example, he has no idea where the electricity comes from, but it’s there. The dryads around him are dressed mostly in green, the designs very modern and practical, with diagonal lines of fitting trousers and shirts, and soft boots making their walk completely silent.

Not many people carry weapons other than knives, and if they do, it’s always a compound bow or a longbow carried on the back, with the quiver on the hip.

The sound of trickling water comes from around them and Dandelion notices the streams running in thin rivulets around the trees and along the paths, with small stone bridges allowing to step over them with dry feet. The waters are clear and slightly glowing. The Waters of Brokilon, he realises.

There are no male dryads here, the only males being elves, their skin every shade from ‘human’ pink to brown, but not green, like the women. Dandelion catches a couple of dryads eyeing him curiously and he hugs his bag closer to his chest, careful not to lose Fauve in the dim light.

“Fauve! Nice catch!” one dryad calls out in a very accented Elder Speech and joins them.

“Not a catch, I’m bringing him to Gwynbleidd,” Fauve replies in a dry tone.

“Are you going to drag him all the way to Col Serrai on foot?”

“I was considering it,” Fauve admits. Dandelion purses his lips. He wonders whether they know he knows Elder Speech. Elder races often speak it thinking humans don’t know it and are surprised when humans show the effort of learning their language. It shouldn’t be surprising, as Elder Speech is about as popular as Common.

“It will take a day, have mercy,” the other dryad laughs.

Dandelion feels tired already at the news. He still doesn’t react.

Fauve glances at him.

“But what if he tells?” she asks the dryad.

“Tell him about the curse and he’ll keep his mouth shut,” the dryad suggests with a shrug.

Dandelion feels a stab of dread in his gut.

Fauve sighs and looks around. Then, she leads him off the path to one of the great trees, with a staircase made of branches winding around the trunk, leading to a high platform. From there, a thick rope leads into the treetops, dozens of metres away, with a thinner rope running slightly above it.

Dandelion gasps when he sees a sleek pod, silver in colour, waiting on the platform. When they approach it, he realises it’s made from some very light metal, with handholds inside, and circular, glass windows.

“You are to say nothing of this in the outside world, do you understand?” Fauve says sternly in Common. “If you do, you, your witcher friend and everyone involved will face dire consequences.”

“I won’t tell, I promise,” Dandelion says, his breathing harsh. He’s never been a great fan of flying, pretty much like Geralt, so what looks like another aerial trip doesn’t make him too enthusiastic, despite the initial excitement over seeing something so special as an outsider.

They enter the pod. Dandelion notices an electronic panel by the door. Fauve starts to type something onto the keypad and the pod starts to move. It’s slow at the beginning and far less bumpy than Dandelion expected. Some system Dandelion can’t see steers them from platform to platform and they move through the forest smoothly and much quicker than they would have on foot.

Soon, Dandelion forgets about his fear and admires the view outside the pod. To the south, he can see a great tree, taller than the surrounding forest, glowing with silver lights and he realises it’s Duén Canell, the heart of Brokilon. There is a platform and a house within the treetop, much larger and richer than what he’s seen so far.

The forest itself is about as magical and mesmerising as he’s imagined it. He can see the buildings hidden under the trees, hundreds of dryads walking about or working in different workshops. Despite everything being built out of natural materials, like wood and ropes — the pods being the very rare exception of something metal — it’s not primitive. People outside Brokilon often imagine that the dryads are wild woodland creatures dressed in rags, barely able to speak modern languages, eating raw food and living only on what they can find in the forest. Here, Dandelion can see that they form a modern society, everything is sleek and clean, even the keypad in the pod looks more modern than some of the technology he sees in Vizima; it’s turning his beliefs about Brokilon — he can’t call it knowledge — upside down.

He wants to ask so many questions, but Fauve doesn’t look like a person who would answer them. He knows by now not to judge by the looks, but he doesn’t want to risk becoming unwelcome here.

It takes about a half an hour to finally reach their destination: another platform at the edge of a glowing grove. Trees are shorter here and the few houses that are here are built close to the ground. The humid air smells of herbs and Dandelion regrets Regis isn’t here, as he would certainly know the origins of the scents. It’s also warmer here than in the part of the forest he had to walk through.

Fauve takes him to a short dryad with light green hair and eyes of a hawk; she’s barefoot, and her clothes: a long-sleeved shirt and knee-length skirt are loose and look comfortable. They find her chopping some herbs over a stone table, her working station lit with bundles of touchwood and moss glowing a cold, green light.

The dryad raises her head and looks at Dandelion, scrutinising.

“My name’s Aglaïs,” the dryad says in Elder Speech and rubs her hands to get rid of the herbs stuck to them. “I’ll take you to your friend.”

“Thank you,” he replies in the same language and Fauve glares at him, eyes cold, most likely surprised that he knows Elder Speech.

Before they manage to reach a hut at the edge of the grove, a familiar white head peeks out the door.

Geralt goes out onto the platform in front of the door and stares at them, mouth open.

“Geralt!” Dandelion calls out and runs to him, throws the bag onto the floor and soon he’s engulfed in a familiar, strong hug of his best friend.

Geralt’s thinner than Dandelion remembers, but he’s there, standing and alive, his pale face covered with a thick beard, hair unruly, clothes sewn by the dryads, simple, soft and well-fitting. It’s still the same man, their witcher, the police detective, a father, a partner and a friend. Dandelion hugs him tighter when he realises how much he’s missed him, how worried he’s been about him.

Geralt apparently needs the hug, too, because he doesn’t draw back until the position becomes uncomfortable for both of them.

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks, his voice hoarse, still keeping his hands on Dandelion’s shoulders as he stares into his friend’s face.

“Milva said that the dryads had sent her,” Dandelion says.

“Milva brought you here?” Geralt frowns. “Why would she…” he starts, then pauses and glances at Aglaïs.

The dryad shrugs.

“Nobody had a choice here: us, she, even you,” she says, nods to Dandelion, turns and leaves, dragging Fauve with her.

Geralt watches them go with pursed lips, then turns to Dandelion and rubs his shoulder absently.

“Come inside,” he says.

Dandelion looks around the hut, the bedroom furnished with a hammock bed, a bedside table and a tiny wardrobe, a table with two chairs in the main room, a kitchenette to the side, where Geralt now prepares them something, and what he suspects is a bathroom behind the closed doors. It’s tiny but quite comfortable and warm. It’s built with the same technique he’s seen before, the floor and walls grown into their shape, the furniture and appliances built from pieces of wood and metal. There’s even a lamp on the ceiling that looks like a part of some unknown plant: from all he knows, it’s probably that.

“I brought some news and a couple of things retrieved from your flat,” Dandelion says as he puts the bag on one of the chairs. He sits on the other and watches Geralt move around the room, preparing tea. The witcher’s back is stiff, but he doesn’t limp; he doesn’t drop anything as he sets two mugs with steaming tea and some snacks — nuts and dried fruit — on the table.

Dandelion can feel tears filling his eyes. Milva told them that Geralt landed in Brokilon with extensive burns, his spine broken and both arms and legs paralysed. Two weeks later he’s moving, not fully healed, but his skin looks healthy, with only tiny black dots marking it in places of the damage, including half of his face; they’re barely visible for people who don’t know what Geralt looked like before. Dandelion can’t judge the range of movement Geralt is capable of now, given the small space, but it looks almost as fluid and graceful as it was before the nightmare of the explosions in Vizima, maybe even Geralt’s encounter with Roggeveen in Gors Velen.

They take their tea and snacks outside, on the porch, sitting with their feet dangling in the air. Dandelion tells him everything that happened in the city since his disappearance. He only hides the fact that Vesemir Morhen was killed at the station, promising himself to only bring it up if Geralt asks about it. He says that Ciri’s considered missing and Yen is trying to track her down, along with law enforcement from neighbouring countries. He tells Geralt that the station was moved to the Royal Quarter.

Geralt’s story is much shorter and more to the point. There isn’t much to tell, other than his argument with Milva and how bored he is, spending most of his days in hot springs and eating disgusting herbs Aglaïs still insist on feeding him.

The whole exchange takes hours. Dandelion can barely take his eyes off Geralt. Those two weeks they’ve been separated were a nightmare. Sure, there were times they hadn’t seen each other for months, but it was before they all settled down. In Vizima they are only a phone call away, seeing each other almost every day.

Geralt apparently feels the same, because he doesn’t shy from touching Dandelion’s back or shoulder when he reaches behind them to get the food or tea. They sit very close just to feel each other’s warmth. It feels familiar. There were times when Dandelion was the only friend Geralt had, apart from his witcher brothers. They’ve been this close then, too. Dandelion knows Geralt would love having Regis here, but there’s no hint that the witcher would want his partner instead of Dandelion.

When the sun sets and there is only the otherworldly glow of the Water of Brokilon to light up the area, they move inside the hut. Geralt turns on the overhead lamp and it’s the first time Dandelion realises there’s electricity in the hut. How he missed it when Geralt made the tea is beyond him.

“Where does the current come from?” he asks. Now that they’ve talked about their feelings, it’s time for some more down-to-Earth topics.

“Underground hydropower plants and geothermal energy,” Geralt answers matter-of-factly. “Col Serrai has its own power plant, deeper into the forest, towards Tukaj Mountains. You know what’s interesting? Brokilon is so isolated the dryads figured out how to get electricity all on their own. They had it already when the rest of the world just started going through the technological boom, based on stolen technology.”

Geralt sits at the table with Dandelion.

“Why did they not share?” Dandelion asks.

“You talk like you don’t know what would happen. If they revealed what they had, people wouldn’t come here asking to share. They would come and steal it, destroying everything on their path.”

Dandelion nods.

Brokilon knows how to defend itself. The first two miles of the forest from the edge in are a dense jungle, almost impenetrable, full of wild animals, dangerous monsters and the dryads’ defence squad, who shoots everyone who’s unwelcome. Everyone who tries to look deeper into the forest meets the pointy end of an arrow, nocked on a bow held by a green-skinned person who seems to be half-wild and set on murder, and that’s if they’re lucky. If unlucky, their death is much slower and much more agonizing in the jaws of some giant centipede or poisoned by a vypper. Those first two miles of jungle and then thick treetops all over the area hide the land of wonders, modern and full of unique technology.

“And I can’t say a word about all this…” Dandelion muses.

“No. Even obscured as some dream story,” Geralt replies and drinks some of his tea. Dandelion smirks: writing about his experiences like that would be very easy, and not the first time he’s done it; no wonder Geralt mentioned it. “Some people know you came here. I would know. You really don’t want to risk it,” Geralt adds, completely serious.

Dandelion isn’t sure how dangerous the dryads are to the people invited inside the forest and, after seeing Geralt’s grave face, he doesn’t want to risk finding out.

“They said something about a curse…” he mutters.

“Yeah, there’s that, too.”

Dandelion stares at Geralt face, eyes wide, but the witcher chooses this moment to drink some more of his tea, so Dandelion has no idea whether he’s completely serious, or is there a smirk hidden behind the rim of the cup.

They sit in silence for a short while, drinking, eating and contemplating each other’s presence when a soft sound reaches them. It takes Dandelion a few seconds to recognise singing in Elder Speech.

“What is it?” he asks.

“What day is it?” Geralt asks instead of replying.

“Um. 45 Birke,” Dandelion replies.

“Belleteyn night,” Geralt mutters, puts his tea on the table, stands up and goes out, on the porch, where he stops, puts his hands in his pockets and stares into the forest.

_ Belleteyn. Ciri turns seventeen, _ Dandelion remembers.

He looks at his best friend’s back and wonders what to do. Leave him alone? Or go to him, try to be with him?

_ He’s been alone long enough, _ he thinks and silently steps onto the porch, joining Geralt.

Outside, the singing is louder, but it still sounds like it comes from far away: no singing in Col Serrai, only in the woods beyond it.

It’s a chorus, voices come from everywhere, high and low, synchronised so they create a very complicated melody. There are no musical instruments in it, they can hear only female voices, soft breeze in the trees and trickling of the streams around the clearing.

“Is there anything you haven’t told me?” Geralt asks softly. “Because I can hear your heart rate increase every time we don’t say anything for longer than ten seconds.”

Dandelion looks at his profile. Geralt is slightly taller than him, the usually sharp features of his face even more prominent now. His eyes have round pupils, but there’s still something very inhuman in the way he just stares ahead, head held high and proud despite the emotional turmoil he must be going through now.

_ He deserves to know. _

“Vesemir Morhen died in the bombing of the station. Eskel and Lambert buried him already, Eskel took over the Homicide Dept,” Dandelion says.

Geralt freezes for a few seconds then purses his lips and turns slowly towards Dandelion.

“Thanks for telling me,” he mutters and returns to the hut.

This time, Dandelion gives him a few minutes alone. When he steps inside the hut, Geralt is sitting on his hammock in the open bedroom, feet on the floor, his elbows on his knees and fingers buried in his hair.

He looks up at Dandelion and gives him a soft smile.

“Any good news?” he asks.

Dandelion takes the bag he brought to Geralt and gives it to him without a word.

Geralt opens it and the first thing he finds is a letter from Regis. Dandelion finds himself something to do while Geralt reads it.

Sometime later, Geralt walks through the main room to the bathroom with his shaving kit. He locks the door, then a buzz comes from behind it and soon Geralt emerges clean-shaven and looking almost like his old self. His hair is still unruly, but his relief at losing the beard is obvious.

The next thing Geralt takes out of the bag is a smartphone.

“Your old phone was broken,” Dandelion says, pointing at it. “Regis bought it, in fact. The police returned the SIM card.”

The phone is very similar to his previous device. Geralt makes quick work with the SIM card and turns the phone on.

“Barely any reception here,” he murmurs. Then, the phone emits a singular ping, heralding a voice message from an unknown number. Geralt frowns and pushes a button to listen to it on the loudspeaker.

Dandelion can feel the blood leave his face as a malicious, male voice says:

“How much are you capable of sacrificing for your precious daughter, huh? A crowned head, maybe?”

* * *

Vilgefortz is sitting cross-legged in the centre of the chalk circle, the emeralds held in his hands resting on his knees. If he still had eyes, they would have been closed; there’s a soft aura of concentrated magic around him, the air smells of ozone.

He’s exhausted. It’s late, he should go to sleep, but he has one last spell to cast and then he’ll continue tomorrow. He knows he wouldn’t get this far to regain his sight if it wasn’t for the place of Power under his cave, corrupted or not.

Haute got his message earlier this evening. It’s been waiting for him since Vilgefortz realised the witcher’s still alive. He can expect to get reports of the man being back in Vizima in a day or two, which is perfectly fine: he’s waited so long, he can give his adversary one more day.

Straggen talked to Rience already and passed him this piece of info in addition to the advice to avoid any places Declan might have known. Rience didn’t comment on the fact that Vilgefortz didn’t trust him to get rid of the suspicious asset properly.

Emhyr var Emreis spoke on the TV earlier today, about continuing to help maintain racial equality in Temeria, which is funny, considering the man is Nilfgaardian, so he comes from a country with its own problems in that regard: notably, being the last country on the Continent to abolish slavery.

_ Too bad he’s not involved in the search efforts for me, _ Vilgefortz thinks, takes a deep breath and starts to murmur that last spell. The emeralds in his hands become warm; he can “see” well enough to notice they start to glow, too.

With var Emreis not being officially involved in Vilgefortz’s case, Vilgefortz can’t attack him directly. People start to slowly forget about him, there’s been silence for the last two weeks, and once Haute returns, the public will get another target and soon they’ll shrug when they’ll hear Vilgefortz’s name, as he’ll be old news. Going after var Emreis would be irrational, especially at this point.

No. var Emreis will have to wait. If — or when — he starts voicing his opinions about Vilgefortz, then someone will go after him. For now, the treacherous bastard is safe.

Vilgefortz leans dangerously to the side, almost falling; he manages to finish the spell, though. He puts the emeralds on the floor, then slowly rises and steps outside the chalk circle. Straggen doesn’t help him as he shuffles towards the armchair by the table, only to fall on it and lean back.

“Anything new from Aubry?” Vilgefortz asks.

“No,” Straggen replies and continues checking his phone. “Why do you stick with him? He’s a useless idiot.”

“Not so useless. He provides political and financial support to the cause he thinks is his own, so I don’t have to spend that much of my own money on Rience and his lackeys.”

Sometimes, Vilgefortz wonders if Aubry realises how serious they are with their preparations. The lobbyist strikes him as a person who will be terrified when they do what he’s theoretically fighting for.

“And he’s a possible scapegoat,” Straggen smirks.

“That’s right,” Vilgefortz replies and reaches for an apple on the table. He can’t eat anything more substantial or he’ll puke.

* * *

The flight back to Vizima the next day is worse than the flight there, mostly because of Geralt’s grumbling. It’s not a secret he hates flying about as much as he hates portals, but he only puts Dandelion more on edge.

Milva’s foul mood doesn’t help either. She’s underslept, having spent the whole yesterday afternoon and some of the night repairing the aircraft’s engine. Geralt’s apology for being mean to her — the first thing he did when he saw her in the morning — didn’t help, although she accepted it; she didn’t promise to be nice to him again, though. She wasn’t too harsh on him, especially after Dandelion revealed the reason for their hurry to be back in the city. Geralt couldn’t be stopped to stay for a few more days, so in the end, Aglaïs gave him some medicine to use and warned him that if he needs her care again in the next two weeks, he probably wouldn’t survive it.

Dandelion doesn’t try to lift the mood during the flight, he knows it won’t work and only aggravates Geralt’s anger further. Ciri in Roggeveen’s hands is a proper nightmare, and not even because of her unique magic; she’s Geralt’s daughter and the man is ready to drive himself to the ground looking for her, trying to protect her.

This also means Geralt is free to grumble as much as he needs to. He’s quiet for most of the flight, clutching his bag and looking out the windows from the front passenger seat. Milva’s frown deepens with every Geralt’s muttered curse at the slightest turbulence and Dandelion can’t help but wonder when she’ll snap.

He also remembers what it took for her to agree to fly them to Vizima: after five minutes of arguing that she’s tired and didn’t feel like flying back, Geralt uttered one word, honestly and painfully:  _ please. _

That deflated her. She couldn’t refuse a “please”. She still grumbled as they all packed, but here they are, flying over the forests, fields, rivers, towns and cities of Temeria. The weather is as pleasant as it was yesterday, so the flight would be enjoyable if both passengers weren’t praying to be back on solid ground and the pilot wasn’t crankier than ever.

Finally, they land in Murky Waters. Geralt can’t exit the aircraft fast enough and he sighs heavily once his feet are on the ground. He stretches his shoulders and shakes his legs: he’s quite tall and has long legs, so hours spent in a cramped aircraft isn’t very comfortable for him, especially this soon after his recovery.

“Fuck, I hate flying,” he says into space.

“Oh, shut your gob!” Milva snaps as she jumps onto the ground. “Your grumbling is worse than mine, and that’s a feat, believe me!”

Geralt only frowns at her.

“Now, you’re back in town, you and your loverboy, and I really hope I’ll never see you two again!” she adds and waves at the airstrip mechanics, who approach with the fuel hose.

“I’m not his loverboy!” Dandelion protests in a squeaky voice as he drags his bag from behind the back seats.

A familiar car pulls up at the airstrip and Dandelion smiles for the first time since yesterday. His focus is turned back to Geralt and Milva when he hears his friend thank their pilot.

Milva huffs and kicks at the tarmac, looking down with her hands in her pockets, suddenly shy.

Geralt takes a deep breath.

“I knew I’ve heard your name before, just couldn’t remember where,” he admits softly. “Seeing that aircraft… A friend of mine in the Narcotics Dept is very interested in your activities.”

Dandelion gapes at her. Milva only shrugs and looks Geralt in the eyes.

“I stopped giving your friend reasons to be interested years ago,” she says, unfazed.

“Do you have any issues I could possibly sort out…?” Geralt asks softly.

Dandelion glances at the car and sees Regis approaching them, with a mixture of awe and joy on his face; his eyes glisten with tears threatening to spill. He’s walking slowly: he can see that Geralt is busy talking to Milva, so he doesn’t want to interrupt.

Dandelion managed to text him before they flew out this morning.

“No, witcher, you better stay away from my problems,” Milva replies mildly. “You’re on your way to big trouble, so save your solving of mine until you sort out yours.”

Geralt nods and it’s only then when he notices Regis, who is only twenty metres from them. He runs to his partner. Dandelion turns away respectfully once it’s clear they’re about to kiss.

Milva and the mechanics pay them no mind, focused on the aircraft.

“Is your attitude always this charming or it’s just your dislike of Geralt for some reason?” Dandelion asks Milva.

“Yes,” she snaps, glancing at him. Dandelion only rolls his eyes at her. “I got attached,” she admits quietly. “It’s a mistake, getting attached, I always regret it, there’s too much to lose.”

“I’ve known him for twenty-five years and I’ve never regretted being his friend,” Dandelion says, glancing at Geralt and Regis, now engulfed in a hug.

Milva glances at them, too.

“He didn’t try to push you away?” she asks softly.

“Oh, he did, more than once. I guess I’m stubborn enough to not let him.”

“Or stupid.”

“Nah,” Dandelion smiles. “He’s a good friend. You want that kind of loyalty.”

Milva purses her lips and moves towards the cockpit door, as the refuelling is almost done.

“Thank you for all you’ve done for him,” Dandelion calls after her.

Milva looks at him and nods.

“You pay for the fuel,” she replies as if this was the argument that convinced her to take them here.

“You know I don’t mean that,” Dandelion sighs, exasperated. He doesn’t want to point out that Milva has done much more than just transport them.

She smiles at him, her irritation fading.

“I know,” she says. “I hope he’ll find his daughter and the people who did this to him. Stay safe.”

“You too,” Dandelion replies and watches her get into the cockpit and close the door.

* * *

_ TROUBLE ON THE WAY!!! _

_ Earlier today, the faithful hound of the Royal Family returned to the city after two weeks of absence. _

_ Have you noticed how calm the city was when he was gone? Are we sure it’s Vilgefortz Roggeveen who is the ‘threat to domestic peace’ here? _

_ On that note, I might have something juicy to reveal in the nearby future. Stay tuned. _

* * *

“What do you think?” Vilgefortz asks Straggen and turns towards him.

In his eye sockets two pale green emeralds are embedded. The stones are cut round and flat, resembling biconvex lenses with smooth edges, and perfectly polished.

“Pretty,” Straggen replies, but with a bit of a stutter, barely hiding his repulsion.

Vilgefortz smiles. He can see Straggen’s face clearly, the tone of his skin, the colour of his eyes and hair; he can see every little twitch of his facial muscles. The “lenses” work. Days of hard work finally paid off, now he can focus on something else.

“Back to work,” Vilgefortz says. “With Haute back in Vizima, it’s time to summon my little helper for the last time.”

“Are you sure about it?” Straggen asks.

“No better use for him than this,” Vilgefortz replies and goes to the summoning circle. He doesn’t even have to start to chant when the air goes slightly colder and there’s a third presence in the shadows outside the stone circle.

Straggen barely contains a surprised shout.

“I will need you soon in Vizima,” Vilgefortz says towards the presence, unperturbed.

Gaunter O’Dimm steps out of the shadow and stands in front of Vilgefortz. He looks like a simple man, dressed in a black suit and expensive, leather shoes, but there’s always something ominous about him.

“And then our contract will be fulfilled,” the man says calmly, keeping his hands in front of him, his spread fingers touching at the tips.

“You know I don’t like to let go of useful people. What would you say to an additional bargain?” Vilgefortz asks, his tone polite.

O’Dimm tips his head to the side.

“What do you have to offer?” he asks.

“What if I personally give you Geralt Haute in place of my soul?”

O’Dimm looks at him, his eyes turn gold for a fraction of a second.

“It’s unfair to bargain with someone else’s soul, especially when that person isn’t present, but, due to our previous dealings, I’m willing to agree,” he says slowly. The air becomes slightly colder. “Your phrasing, though, matters here. You have to deliver me his soul in person,” he says. “Agree to that or we’ll keep our old contract.”

Vilgefortz hesitates, then nods.

“With him being included in the contract, does the term of delivery of my soul change?” he asks.

“Why would it?” Gaunter asks in a tone like it’s obvious.

Vilgefortz purses his lips.

“Fair enough.”

* * *

Geralt steps into the Police station in the Royal Quarter and quickly finds the floor his Department is now occupying. When he reaches it, he realises how crowded it is. People have settled in, but it’s much less space than they were used to.

Some people are missing, too, some familiar faces are gone.

There are others in their place: most notably the Narcotics Dept the Homicide has to share the space with.

Geralt wonders whether he has a desk reserved.

It takes half a minute for someone to notice him standing in the doorway. The whole place just falls silent, people staring at him as if he’s a ghost.

Then, there’s a joyful cry from a nearby desk:

“Geralt!”

Suddenly he has arms full of Triss, hugging him hard.

He hugs her back.

“Triss. Thank you,” he whispers into her ear and she just hugs him harder.

“So good to see you back,” she says as she lets go of him, her eyes misty.

“Where’s Eskel?”

“In his office,” she shows him the door on the far side of the room.

He nods and goes there, Triss walking with him, the still stunned stares of his colleagues following him. He doesn’t snap at them. He pretty much returned from the grave after two weeks of absolutely no news. He’s aware Triss must’ve told them something, but he didn’t warn anyone about his return.

He knocks on Eskel's office door and steps in, not waiting for the invitation.

Eskel looks up from behind the stacks of papers on his desk, stands up, walks up to him and hugs him.

Geralt accepts it and feels the tiniest part of the normality snap into place. To be with his brother, being welcomed by two people he feels the closest to at work, by his friends, it’s a feeling he’s started to miss without even noticing. In Brokilon, he spent the first week barely conscious, then Milva stayed with him, but she wasn’t a friend, not at the beginning. He missed the familiarity. It’s weird how quickly you can get used to a new situation in your life, to having friends and company.

Eskel lets go of him, glances at the main room, people still staring at them.

“Get back to work,” he snaps and closes the door, keeping Geralt and Triss inside.

He sits behind his desk again. Geralt takes a chair facing him, Triss remains by the door, suddenly tense.

“You want to know about the current situation?” Eskel asks and Geralt notices he’s tense, too.

“I know Vesemir’s dead,” he says simply.

Eskel nods and reaches towards a desk drawer and takes out a flat case; he passes it to Geralt.

Geralt opens it and sees a medal of honour. He purses his lips.

“Lambert, Triss and Keira got them, too,” Eskel says quietly, probably trying to not break the solemn mood. “Yours is waiting for you at the Castle.”

“Don’t need a medal,” he murmurs.

“You should at least have this one,” Eskel says and nods at the case in Geralt’s hands. “You were closer to him than anyone here.”

Vesemir was practically his father; the old witcher raised Geralt since he was delivered to Kaer Morhen at the very young age of three. Vesemir knew his real parents. Geralt remembers how angry Vesemir was at the mages who practically stole Geralt from the keep to put him through the second round of mutations. Vesemir had had no idea it would happen; weeks later, when Geralt finally regained his consciousness, Vesemir would still shout at them at every opportunity. He stopped when it got him into trouble with some older masters.

There are so many memories Geralt feels he’s drowning in them.

At least Vesemir died as a hero.

“Put it on display here somewhere,” he replies and passes the case back to Eskel.

Eskel nods and puts the case back in the drawer.

“Vernon Roche will want to talk to you, I’ll call him to come here as soon as possible. He’s focusing on the plot against the King, we’re working on the bombings.”

There’s a clicking noise from the door: Triss is sending a message.

“I want to focus on looking for Ciri, if that’s okay,” Geralt says.

Eskel nods.

“May not be useful for anything else,” Geralt admits, “but I have some interesting things to share, so yeah, getting Roche here would be good.”

“Want a desk?”

“If you have one to spare, yeah, although I don’t think I will be using it much. Just need a computer.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

“Roche should be here in a few minutes,” Triss says from her place by the door. “Maybe you could tell us how you’ve been in the last two weeks?”

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees.

Before he can start, though, a very grumpy figure barges through the office door, pushing Triss to the side, and shuts it closed again with a bang. Triss yelps.

“You left us, you fucker,” Lambert seethes through his teeth, fists clenched, posture stiff.

“Hi, Lambert,” Geralt says with a sigh as he stands from his chair. “Not by choice.”

“Don’t care,” Lambert snaps and then there’s a fist on a collision course with Geralt’s face.

Geralt dodges it easily, slapping the fist away with his hand. Lambert stays firmly on his feet — any less experienced fighter would sway.

“Vesemir died in the rubble, did you know that? The captain going down with the ship,” Lambert says, his tone accusatory.

“Yes, Lambert, I heard,” Geralt says mildly.

For some reason, it works and Lambert calms down. He’s just staring at Geralt, breathing heavily, still stiff, like he’s unsure what to do.

“Now you’re back,” Lambert finally says. “Vesemir’s gone… That Carre man who died on the convoy was a Wolf witcher, too, wasn’t he? For all we know, there’s only three of us left.”

“Yeah. We’ll nail down those who did this to us,” Geralt replies in the same level, mild tone.

“While preferably staying alive,” Lambert finishes and Geralt purses his lips.

He sometimes doubts it, as usual with a special mission: a task particularly difficult, some special contract on a monster that’s old, angry and has a very long list of victims to its name. Geralt’s ninety-six years old, he’s been through a lot, thought he’d die countless times and yet he’s still here.

He knows Vilgefortz Roggeveen is special, though. It’s not a typical police case, this is about revenge and stopping a very powerful sorcerer from turning their world upside down. It’s personal, therefore far more dangerous than most challenges Geralt’s faced in his very long life.

Lambert scowls when he sees Geralt’s face: he knows what the older man is thinking. He won’t comment on it, though, because that’s his life, too. He knows the risks. Police work is safer than witchering, but all it takes is a stray bullet to put them down.

“Roche’s almost here,” Triss says softly, breaking the tension between the two witcher brothers.

“Let me know if you need me,” Lambert says and leaves the office.

Roche joins them a minute later. He looks Geralt up and down, probably noticing the subtle changes Geralt underwent when he was gone: the still visible, although very faint dots on his face and hands, the fact that he lost some weight and muscle tone, revealed by how his clothes hang on him now.

Eskel points Roche to a chair and they sit. Triss remains by the door.

“Right, what do we know about the bombings and the plot against the King?” Geralt asks, crossing his legs at the knees.

“The threat against the King is no longer your case,” Roche grumbles.

“I know, but I’m sure I can help, considering some of my files were lost in the bombings and you couldn’t use them,” Geralt replies lightly.

So Roche and Eskel tell him what they know, showing crime scenes and suspects’ photos on Eskel’s monitor. When they start to discuss the people involved in both cases, Geralt asks to pause on the photo of ‘Declan’. He leans forward to take a closer look and frowns.

“All we know about him is that he’s Nilfgaardian and probably involved in their Intelligence,” Eskel says.

“Well, he’s not Nilfgaardian,” Geralt says.

“You know him?” Roche asks.

Geralt leans back and takes his phone out of his pocket.

“It’s Cahir aep Ceallach, add two additional names I don’t remember in the middle. He’s from Vicovaro and he’ll make sure you know that if you ever call him a Nilfgaardian within his earshot.”

“How do you know him?” Triss asks with a frown. Geralt goes through his photo gallery on the phone.

“Met him once, nine years ago, at Pavetta Riannon’s funeral,” Geralt replies and then the room falls silent. Even Eskel, who’s been busy typing on the computer, freezes.

The majority of the people in the office know exactly who Pavetta Riannon was.

“Might want to ask Emhyr var Emreis about him,” Geralt adds after a few seconds.

The silence continues. Geralt glances at Roche: the man is staring at him, the big question written all over his face. Geralt takes pity in him and says:

“All I know is that var Emreis has always been very much aware he had a daughter and used aep Ceallach at least once to keep an eye on her; he decided to act on that knowledge only when it was useful for his political campaign. He’s less of an asshole now, but that’s a fresh change. I have no idea who exactly aep Ceallach is, but I’m certain he’s a part of the Nilfgaardian Intelligence and var Emreis was or still is affiliated with them.”

“Why is he with Rience?” Roche asks. “Gone rogue?”

“Don’t think so. He’s probably playing some double game,” Geralt replies and finally finds what he was looking for: the mysterious photos from an unknown number he kept receiving since Roggeveen escaped the convoy to Novigrad. He connects his phone to Eskel’s computer, so he can show the photos on the screen. “Although I have to ask him about blowing up my flat and possibly kidnapping Ciri.”

Triss, Eskel and Roche gasp.

“What do you mean about them kidnapping Ciri?” Roche asks mildly.

“Got a message yesterday, from Roggeveen himself. He heavily implied he’s about to blackmail me.”

As if on cue, Geralt’s phone starts to ring. Geralt’s startled in a pretty undignified way: he visibly jumps.

An unknown number again. Geralt doesn’t put it on speaker.

He listens to the message, then slowly puts the phone away from his ear and ends the call. He stares into space for a few seconds, the phone clutched in his hand.

“He wants me to go to the Dike at midnight tonight,” he says and slumps in the chair.

“What are you going to do?” Triss asks softly.

“Stay away from the Royal Family, that’s for sure,” Roche says sharply. Triss and Eskel frown at him.

“Fine by me,” Geralt replies, slightly absently. He’s still not looking at anyone. Then he throws the phone on Eskel’s desk, leans forward with his elbows on his knees and runs his fingers through his hair, making it stand up.

“You think they have her?” Eskel asks softly.

“I have no idea,” Geralt admits, still keeping his fingers in his hair. “All we know is that she’s vanished, we also know Roggeveen is somewhere shielded, so we can’t track him down or try to locate her, meaning we can’t prove he doesn’t have her. But the last thing they said to me before blowing up my flat was that they didn’t need me, and now they try to use her as a bargaining chip? I don’t get it. Why did they change their mind?”

“Maybe it’s a bluff. You know that Ciri might have escaped and they’re aware you have no idea where she is,” Triss suggests.

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees and leans back, “but it’s a choice between doing what they want me to, and me not doing anything and them hurting Ciri. It’s a fucking lose-lose situation and fuck if I know what to do.”

“What about your doppler friends?” Roche asks. “You could use one of them instead.”

Geralt looks at him with a frown.

“How do you know about them?”

“They came to me about three days after the bombings. I wasn’t happy about involving civilians, but we decided to continue their—”

“Why the fuck did they come to you?”

Roche stares at him.

“Now you say I should ask one of them to meet killers as myself? Like spying at the Castle isn’t dangerous enough, especially with a handler that doesn’t care about them?”

Roche is still staring at Geralt with wide eyes.

“I’m calling off their involvement and don’t even try to work behind my back on this, they’re my friends and my responsibility,” Geralt seethes, “and I’m definitely not asking one of them to play me during what will most likely be a trap.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Besides, you — or even someone with your face — can’t be seen with Roggeveen’s known associates, they will use it against you. There’s this website spreading rumours and lies about your absence after the bombings and the reasons you were attacked. The situation is delicate enough already.”

“But also,” Eskel cuts in, his voice soft, “knowing Ciri, she won’t forgive you if you give in and let them use you, most likely to kill the King, because what else would they want you to do? More importantly, you won’t forgive yourself.”

“Yeah,” Geralt sighs.

“What are you going to do?” Triss asks softly. Roche and Eskel watch him.

“I have no idea. I have the whole afternoon and evening to think about it, though,” Geralt admits. “Do you need me for anything?”

“Not today,” Eskel says, worry still written all over his face.

Geralt nods, stands up and leaves the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the writer! ;)
> 
> THE PROMISED SPOILERS: Okay, to all the people worried about the Hansa: I take your worry as a compliment ;); also, I know I can be mean to my characters, but I want you to enjoy this story. Even more importantly, *I* want to enjoy it. I’m forever salty over what’s happened to the Hansa in the books, so while I’m not saying that no-one will get hurt, I put Vilgefortz in Vidort and not Stygga for more reasons than just geography. I hope it’ll make you feel better somehow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm mean to some people, again, a.k.a. Major Plot Event No. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this chapter will get more of a reaction from you, dear readers, than the previous one.

The townhouse Geralt has lived in is now repaired. Most of the flats adjacent to Geralt’s are now renovated, only his own is left as it was after the fire.

Geralt tears down the police tape from the door and opens it. He walks in tentatively.

It’s dry, with moisture marks mixing with soot on the walls and furniture. He steps carefully over the mess on the floor, spares a quick glance at the living room and goes to his bedroom.

Everything is covered in dust here, but the room isn’t damaged.

He checks his wardrobe and takes some clothes and a backpack. Then, he lies on the floor and reaches under the bed, lifts a few planks and takes out a small metal case. He sits up and uses a key from his keyring — which has been returned to him by Dandelion — to open it.

Inside is his emergency witcher stash. There are silver daggers, gun clips with silver bullets, pouches with herbs, a couple of potion vials, the first aid kit. He packs it all into the backpack.

“Too bad my sword and armour are gone,” he murmurs, stands up and looks around. In the kitchen, he checks the fridge and finds it empty: someone took care of it when he was gone.

On his way back to the living room, Geralt peeks into Ciri’s bedroom. It’s just as it was when Ciri went to school that fateful day. Her laptop is closed, a phone charger lies on her bedside table.

He steps slowly into the room, stands in the middle of it and looks around.

It's messy, “an organised chaos”, as Ciri likes to explain why there’s barely any patches of the floor clean of her clothes and notebooks. For once Geralt doesn’t feel a pang of irritation at the sight. He’s stopped fighting with her over the state of her room once she grew up a little and the mess wasn’t just her rebellion against his authority anymore: it was a conscious choice, or more like her just being a teenager. “As long as there's no new civilisation developing and preparing to set the flat on fire, do whatever you like”, he conceded; she seemed happy and he just avoided going into her room if he didn't have to.

He’s tried not to think about her for the last two weeks, but standing in her empty room he feels like there’s a hole in his heart. He remembers the call he got just before his flat was blown up. He feels his lungs seize up at the mere thought of Ciri being in Roggeveen’s hands. He still hopes it was a bluff, something to distract him from his case or force him to take part in Roggeveen’s plans.

So now he takes a couple of deep breaths and glances at Ciri’s desk. On one of her sketchbooks, there’s a bracelet made of wooden beads: she bought it in Bremervoord during her trip with Yen a couple of savaeds ago. He remembers her wearing it when she was visiting him in the hospital in Gors Velen, after his first encounter with Roggeveen.

He runs his fingers over the dark beads, probably made from wood that spent a long time underwater: it’s a typical Bremervoord souvenir. He grabs the bracelet and puts it in his pocket. He looks around and wonders when — and if at all — he and Ciri will be able to return to this flat.

His phone chirps. He glances at the screen and sees that he just got an email from an unknown source, although he can guess who’s behind the fake email address.

He leaves Ciri’s bedroom and looks around the living room.

The picture Ciri drew about a month ago, the animals that symbolise their little family — him, Ciri, Yen and Regis — catches his eyes. He carefully removes it from the frame, folds it, puts it into his jacket pocket and leaves the flat, closing the door behind him with the key.

* * *

Geralt leaves the backpack at Regis’ flat, then drives to the Chameleon; he has to pass the scene of the station bombing on the way and he stops there, still sitting on Roach which he collected from Dandelion earlier today, contemplating the sight of the mostly cleaned-out rubble.

Geralt’s wearing his black leather jacket and a black beanie, so he doesn’t catch the eye of the passers-by. Some of them just glance at him, sitting on his bike, lost in thought, and murmur about what a tragedy the explosion was, but no-one addresses him directly, leaving him to his thoughts.

Geralt doesn’t even notice the passage of time; a cold gust of wind shakes him out of his reverie and after a glance at his phone screen he realises he’s spent almost an hour sitting here. The sun is about to set; he turns on the bike’s engine and drives to the Chameleon.

He’s surprised to find Dudu and Chappelle there, sitting at the counter in male human forms. Both dopplers jump in joy when they see him, but their enthusiasm falters when they notice his frown and pursed lips.

“So you went to Roche?” Geralt asks and plants himself on a stool at the counter next to Chappelle, who now sits in the middle. Ilona the bartender smiles at him and raises an eyebrow in a silent question, but Geralt shakes his head.

“Nice to see you, too, how you’ve been?” Dudu asks with a sneer.

“Do you realise how dangerous it was to stay at the Castle without a handler?” Geralt seethes.

“We were doing about the same thing we did when you were available,” Chappelle argues. “We discovered some discrepancies in the guards’ schedule around the Royal Family Wing, too. We told Roche about them and he promised to investigate.”

“Still, you should have gotten the fuck away from there.”

“We’re not children, Geralt!” Chappelle argues.

“Dudu brought you to Vizima to be safe, not risk your head for me. You’re vulnerable.”

“We’re not that easy to kill,” Dudu hisses.

“Yes, you are, Dudu, much easier than me!” Geralt bangs his hand on the table.

Dudu’s face turns from angry to concerned.

“What’s going on?” they ask.

“I think shit’s about to hit the fan,” Geralt admits after taking a couple of deep breaths to calm down.

“I think we’re safe,” Chappelle says after a second of silence. “No-one pays us any attention at the Castle.”

“Doesn’t mean they don’t know about you,” Geralt grumbles.

“You want us to leave the Castle?” Dudu asks.

Geralt sighs.

“Yeah. I’ll talk to the Princess tomorrow.”

“What about Roche?”

“Don’t give a fuck about Roche,” Geralt snaps, then his voice softens. “Another thing: I know you live in Old Vizima, so could you please stay away from the Dike around midnight? I mean, really away. Go home right now or stay here until closing time.”

“Why?” Dudu asks.

"Just once, do what I ask you to, okay?" Geralt almost whines. He glances at the clock above the counter. Nine in the evening. It was time to make the decision: either talk to Roche and Eskel and prepare to show up at the Dike or get as far as possible from there.

 _Never give in to threatening demands_ was something Special Forces and Police courses repeated time and time again. _You can negotiate, but if you don’t have that chance, you don’t do what they tell you to._

But this is about Ciri.

They’re not even sure Roggeveen has Ciri. The two messages — the one right before the grenade was thrown into his flat, and the one he received after getting his phone back — were pretty contradictory. Roggeveen isn’t the type of man to change his mind over something so big.

Maybe Ciri didn’t cooperate, so they decided on a different approach.

Maybe Roggeveen doesn’t have Ciri. He gave no proof. They went after her, sure, but Ciri might have teleported.

But she’s been missing for two weeks. What keeps her from returning if she’s free? Is she waiting until it’s safe? Or did she land somewhere she can’t return from? His dreams suggested that, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

Will he see her again?

Geralt shakes himself when he feels Dudu’s hand on his shoulder. He turns towards the doppler and sees the open worry on their face.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” the doppler says softly, “but I promise we’ll stay away from the Dike tonight.”

“Thanks,” Geralt murmurs and stands up, the decision made.

* * *

“You do realise that whatever you see, we won’t be able to use it in court,” Eskel says, slightly exasperated, as Triss sets up her megascope on the roof of the station building. They can’t see the Dike from here, but it doesn’t matter: Triss focuses her magic on the gate leading to the Dike and Old Vizima, which is visible from their spot, and it’s enough for their purposes.

“I doubt we’ll see anything,” Triss replies. “Except that maybe it’s high time for Spring Cleaning,” she adds with a wry smile, pointing at the drowners swimming in circles in the lake near the pier, visible in the megascope.

“We could deal with them with silver bullets, but I’d rather not go there without an armour,” Eskel murmurs.

“I’m not rushing you, just saying there’s a problem.”

“As always,” Eskel replies and stares into the projection, hanging in the air in front of them. “Roche will have a fit over the display of magic,” he adds after a pause.

“Roche’s not my boss,” Triss says firmly.

After a few seconds, they both sit down. Stars are sparkling above them in the clear sky, the moon is new, everything is silent.

“Half to midnight,” Eskel murmurs after a glance at his phone. “Do you think Geralt will come?”

“Whether he will or not, I’m sure he’ll be pretty angry tomorrow, no matter what happens,” Triss says, her voice quiet in the silence of the night around them. “He’s so angry all the time, ever since the first Roggeveen case. Has he ever exploded?”

“Don’t remember,” Eskel admits. “He’s reaching this point of calm before the storm, though. The more collected he seems, the more dangerous he becomes. He knows where to put this anger, he won’t take it out on us, except maybe with some shouting and going feral during sparring, but considering that Ciri’s involved and this was a personal attack… I think we’ll see what he’s capable of when really angry. I’m not looking forward to that, because it’s not something you recover from quickly and without scars.”

Triss nods.

 _Something ends._ They realised this when Roggeveen escaped.

* * *

Geralt sits on the riverbank, on a spot with a clear view of the Roper’s Gate on the other side of the Ismena River. The area is quiet, with only the rustling of the trees around him to break the silence. He has his silver dagger and the gun with silver bullets at hand, but this has never been a place frequented by monsters.

The traffic ceased some time ago. Roach is parked nearby. He’s alone with his thoughts.

“‘Later, it was said the man came from the north, from Ropers Gate’,” Geralt murmurs, remembering the tale of the striga contract he heard when he returned to Vizima four years after the event. He remembers that Dandelion was delighted when he heard that there was The Tale. He wrote his version, slightly closer to the truth in some places and about as outrageous as the original in others, adding some nonsense about Geralt causing a fight in an inn just to show off and get the attention of the city’s authorities, which was untrue.

Those were good times. Simple ones.

At the time of the contract, he had no idea how it would impact his life. He’d never asked for the Edict, or for the attention he got from the non-humans who knew the truth behind the story. He wasn’t a fighter for civil rights, he was just doing his job.

He’s been living here for sixteen years. Now he feels like his world is crumbling around him.

He feels Ciri’s phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. He recharged the battery and turned on the phone earlier today, but he doesn’t know how to unlock the screen — it’s a part of his and Ciri’s “respect my privacy” deal — so the only thing he sees on the lock screen are the most recent texts and call history.

Thirty of the texts are from Mistle, Ciri’s girlfriend. Geralt noticed the girl sends one text in the morning and one in the evening. Usually, it’s a heart emoji or a question mark. The calls are from the rest of Ciri’s friends, Iskra, Kayleigh and others.

On one hand, Geralt’s glad Ciri’s friends are so worried about her. On the other, it’s just another group of brokenhearted people looking for answers he can’t give them, only adding to the burden on his heart.

The rustle of the leaves intensifies behind him and Geralt notices a grey fog circling him. He sighs.

The fog falls to the ground and materialises into Regis, dressed in dark trousers and a black button-down shirt. It’s a good look on him, except there’s a scowl on his face, breaking the image.

“Why do you keep bottling up all your anxieties?” Regis asks, keeping his hands on his hips. “I thought we discussed this.”

“Can we please not talk about my character’s flaws right now? I really don’t need it.”

Regis sighs and sits beside him, close enough for their shoulders to touch.

Geralt takes out his phone from his jacket pocket and shows Regis the latest photo he received from the unknown email address.

“Think this could be the view from that window?” he asks, pointing at the darkened window of a townhouse overlooking the river.

Regis glances at the photo, then at the apparently abandoned building and the forest behind them, noticing the boulder on the riverbank, clearly visible on the picture.

“It could be, yes,” he admits. “Do you want me to check it?” he asks, pointing at the window.

“No, I’ll do it myself in the morning or show it to Roche.”

Geralt puts his phone back into his pocket.

They sit there for a while in silence. Geralt notices that Regis glances at him from time to time, but both of them don’t say anything.

Soon he feels Regis’ hand sneak up his back and start massaging his spine. He hangs his head with a quiet sigh.

“Was a mistake not to come to you,” he admits.

“I’m glad to hear it, although I understand where this avoidance comes from.”

“Thanks.”

They hear the bells from the Castle’s towers, audible across the whole city, echoing in the trees behind them.

“Midnight,” Geralt murmurs, his throat tight. “Am I killing my daughter right now?”

Regis only puts his head on Geralt’s shoulder, still rubbing his back.

* * *

“He didn’t come,” Triss says, the cold fingers of dread squeezing her chest. Eskel still sits beside her, lips pursed, brows furrowed, his jaw muscles twitching under his skin. They watch the projection in the megascope, showing them nothing but the drowners still splashing in the lake, and the empty pier.

* * *

“He didn’t show up,” Straggen reports to Vilgefortz five minutes past midnight. The sorcerer is lounging on the couch, reading a book. He still has to squint, but the mere fact of being able to see tiny letters makes him very satisfied.

“Interesting. I thought he loved his daughter,” Vilgefortz replies, not raising his eyes from the page. “In that case, prepare the package and have it delivered in the morning.”

He hears Straggen’s chuckle and he can’t help but smile himself.

The girl behind the closed pantry door is going to have a very unpleasant day.

* * *

Geralt’s back at the station at seven o’clock in the morning. The people he passes back away from him at the sight of his face: there’s a barely contained anger. Since his return to Vizima he rarely bothered to make his eyes look human, and now is no exception: the cat pupils are blown wide, almost glowing.

He’s also paler than usual and visibly underslept: he’s spent the whole night by the northern city gate, Regis keeping him company until dawn when he had to return to his flat to prepare for today’s shift at the hospital. Geralt wandered around the waking up city until he got the message from Triss about a package at the station.

Triss is waiting for him by the conference room door, twitchy and pale.

“Do you know what it is?” Geralt asks and walks into the room.

Triss shakes her head.

“It’s been scanned for explosives and came out clean, but there’s something weird inside.”

Roche and Eskel are standing by the table, nervous.

To his surprise, Philippa Eilhart is also here, lounging in the chair by the far wall, legs crossed, fingers interlocked in her lap, looking about as sharp as ever.

“I thought I had a deal with your friend at the inn, but I first learnt about your return from that blasted website,” she says.

“Another thing to discuss, yeah,” Geralt nods and looks at the object of everyone’s distress.

On the table lies a simple wooden box with a lid attached by tiny hinges. It looks like a children’s money-box, but without the slot on the lid to put coins through. It has a tiny lock, but there’s no key.

“How did it get here?” Geralt asks, standing by the table, looking at the box, his arms hanging by his sides, hands clenched into fists. He’s tense like a drawn bowstring.

“We noticed a flash of magic at the Circle of Elements in the woods, but we didn’t manage to trace the source,” Roche says.

“Nice way of hiding the portal, anything could have caused that flash,” Geralt murmurs and focuses on his medallion, which indicates there’s no magic involved now.

“We don’t know who delivered the box,” Roche finishes.

“It was just here when we came in this morning,” Triss adds.

Geralt draws Quen around himself and tells everyone to stay back. Even Philippa looks mildly interested.

Then he carefully lifts the lid of the box.

“What is it?” Triss asks in a whisper from behind his back.

“A finger,” Geralt drawls out. “The little finger of a left hand. We can safely assume they want us to think it’s Ciri’s.”

“And it’s not?” she chokes out as she peeks into the box.

“No,” Geralt replies calmly and clenches his teeth. He’s breathing harshly through his nose.

The finger’s been washed and preserved, the cut looks like it’s been healed, it’s covered with skin with no scars. It looks alive, but is, thankfully, not moving. Judging by the length of it, the former owner of the finger barely has a stump left, it was cut very close to the knuckle.

“How do you know?” Roche asks.

They jump at the sound of Geralt’s phone ringing.

“Check the CCTV and find out who brought this box here. Try to find the source of the flash. And, for fuck’s sake, find out who’s accessing the CCTV here right now,” Geralt snaps as he takes the phone out of his pocket. Eskel leaves the room without comment; Triss is pale, she looks like she’s about to be sick, and Roche purses his lips. Philippa’s face is devoid of emotions.

Geralt accepts the call and switches it to the loudspeaker.

“Do you like my present, Detective Haute?” comes Roggeveen’s voice.

“What did you want to accomplish here?” Geralt says, his voice dripping with contempt. “I wasted a few hours, I’ll give it to you, but it’s pretty inspiring. When I find you, I will slice you to pieces, I’ll make you scream and feel everything I’ll be doing to you, and let you die only after I cut your heart out.”

Then he disconnects the call.

He’s clutching the phone so tightly he might break it, but then he forces himself to put the phone in his jacket pocket and takes a deep breath.

“Get this tested for a DNA sample match. Ciri’s in the base, you can start comparing it with her DNA,” Geralt says, forcibly calm. He’s tense as a bowstring.

“We’ll try to identify the owner,” Triss says softly. “Maybe they’re in the missing persons’ database.”

It's a standard procedure to take a DNA sample of the missing person from whatever source the police can find: a hairbrush at the flat is the most popular. When someone reports someone missing, usually some people care enough to provide a sample.

It’s also very typical for law enforcement officers to provide samples from them and their family members.

Triss takes the box and leaves the room. Roche and Philippa stare at Geralt.

Geralt takes another deep breath and takes a piece of paper from his pocket.

“I found the flat in which one of the photos I showed you yesterday might have been taken,” he says and gives Roche the paper. On it, there’s an address. “Haven’t been inside, feel free to check it out.”

Roche nods and pockets the paper.

“Do we know anything about the website?” Geralt asks. He’s still standing by the table, too stressed to sit.

“We’re looking for ways to take it off the internet,” Philippa says. “The source is hard to find, but we get a lot of pings from Gors Velen.”

“So it’s possible it’s maintained by some old employee of Roggeveen,” Geralt replies.

“We assume that’s the case. Where do they get the information, though? And what’s the purpose?”

“They write mostly about me, they rarely mention Roggeveen and when they do, they point out what Roggeveen hasn’t done.”

“They want to destroy your reputation,” Roche realises.

“Yeah, so whatever happens next, it will be much easier for the public to blame me,” Geralt shrugs.

“Where do they get the information?”

“The database they hacked into over two weeks ago, for one,” Philippa suggests, “and two, I don’t think we should discuss such matters here.” She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m worried what they’ve found there,” Roche murmurs.

“As you should be,” Geralt replies, then his tone hardens, not allowing any argument. “By the way, I talked to Dudu yesterday, they and Chappelle are off the case the moment I’m able to talk to the Princess about it.”

Roche nods.

“Stay away from the Royal Family,” he replies.

“Will do my best, believe me, but I have to talk to Princess Anaïs. Feel free to do whatever you want with the case, I’m focusing on Ciri now.”

“Where are you going to look for her?”

“Fuck if I know. Will figure something out.”

“I know Yennefer Venger was scanning for her, without results.”

Geralt glances at him, his golden cat eyes shining with emotions. He purses his lips and marches out the door, shutting it with a thud.

Roche is startled and soon goes after him. He meets Triss just outside the room.

“Have you seen Geralt?” he asks.

“He went upstairs.”

“Can you and Keira Metz come to my office at lunch? As much as I hate it, I might have some use for your magic.”

Triss raises an eyebrow at him.

“We’ll be honoured,” she says, her voice dripping with irony. “Have you ever thought of joining the witch hunters?” she calls after him when he walks briskly towards the stairs leading to the roof. He frowns but doesn’t bother to reply.

Geralt is indeed on the roof, leaning against the railing of the balcony, with his elbows propped on the railing, left hand hanging over it, the other buried in his dishevelled hair, a lit cigarette between his pointer and middle fingers. The hand holding the cigarette shakes slightly when Geralt takes a drag.

At this moment, Geralt isn’t a witcher or a Homicide detective. He’s a father who’s spent the last two weeks thinking his daughter was in the hands of a psychopath, only to find out in a quite gruesome way that she wasn’t. It causes some ambiguous feelings: as relieved as he may be, a probably innocent person got hurt just to get at him, and they still have no idea where Ciri is.

Geralt glances at Roche over his shoulder and lets the hand with the cigarette hang over the railing, too. The agent approaches the witcher and stands beside him, looking over the city walls at the Dike, Old Vizima and the Swamp beyond.

“Did you know I was considered a failed experiment?” Geralt asks, apropos of nothing. “I got so well through the Trials and Changes, they repeated the whole process the next year, only with different mutagens. I barely survived that one. Usually, the Wolf witchers left Kaer Morhen for the Path for the first time at twenty; it differed between schools. With me, they waited another year, still expecting me to die suddenly.” He snorts. “Eskel and I are the same age; I remember Eskel didn’t want to go on the Path for the first time without me, so he stayed around the fortress for that year. The masters weren’t too happy with him. The next year, we went together.”

“Why did they think you were a failure? I thought they aimed to make you better than everyone else,” Roche says.

Geralt shrugs.

“They mostly succeeded. I’m faster and more resilient. My signs are crappier than they were after the first round, though. They’re passable, but should be better, especially considering my supposedly magical background, with my sorceress mother. No, they thought I failed because I was mentally more human than they expected me to be. They wanted an almost indestructible monster killing machine, they should have achieved that, instead they got a very resilient white-haired kid with _emotions.”_

Geralt glances at him and waves the hand with the cigarette. It doesn’t shake anymore.

“This is me, having emotions. Eskel and Lambert would die before allowing themselves that, they don’t feel the need. I do, so I’m a failure. Only Vesemir didn’t see it that way, he said being able to bond with people might help me survive on the Path. The other masters disagreed. Thank goodness those old fuckers are all dead now.”

Geralt turns away from Roche, takes a long drag of the cigarette and blows the smoke out through his nose.

“What are you going to do now?” Roche asks.

“Talk to my ex-wife and maybe start doing some background checks on my esteemed colleagues. I know some people here still work for Roggeveen. They won’t be very happy when I find them.”

“I thought you were going to look for your daughter.”

“And you should stop pretending the three cases: my daughter, the planned assassination of King Foltest and Roggeveen being missing aren’t connected. You’re not that naive.”

Roche purses his lips.

“You focus on protecting the King,” Geralt continues. “I’ll try to not make your job any more difficult than it is already.”

“I appreciate it,” Roche says wryly.

* * *

“So, in terms of blackmailing Haute, that was it,” Straggen says, lounging on the couch by the cave wall.

Vilgefortz is still testing his new crystal “eyes”, walking around the cave, focusing on some objects, trying to write. His vision is getting sharper, but it needs some tuning, and everything has a light green tint to it: that’s probably due to the crystals he’s used. He wonders whether that can be tuned, too, but he suspects it will be difficult because of the lack of daylight here. They have enough light sources in here for the cave to be comfortable, but it’s unnatural, distorting colours.

“It doesn't matter,” Vilgefortz replies, “it provided a momentary distraction.”

“I wonder how he knew straight away it wasn’t his daughter’s finger. He knows that well how she looks?”

“Maybe it’s some birthmark we have no idea about. I’ve never put much hope in that stint anyway.”

“Now what?”

“Tell Rience to get ready for the big event. They are to use the first opportunity they get. O’Dimm will provide the necessary support.”

“And then what?”

“And then we’ll watch the events unfold.”

Straggen raises his head from the backrest of the couch and looks at Vilgefortz.

“You’re not going to leave this dump before Haute finds you, are you? So you two can get the chance to kill each other.”

“Tell the people to not kill him before he gets here.”

Straggen huffs.

“What about the girl?” he points at the locked door at the far end of the cave.

Vilgefortz glances there. It's been quiet for some time now, ever since he threatened the girl he'd shut her up if she didn't herself. Before that, she'd spent her every waking hour cursing them and screaming, especially after they relieved her of her left little finger.

They don’t need her anymore.

“Do whatever you want with her. Just not here,” Vilgefortz makes a dismissive gesture.

Straggen sneers, takes the key to the door and goes there. Soon he drags out the girl — Angoulême? Vilgefortz isn’t sure about her name, not that it matters — by her filthy and unruly hair. She’s gasping and tries to free herself from Straggen’s grasp, scratching his hands and hitting him without much force. Her left hand is wrapped in some dirty rag, she’s pale, thinner than when she joined them, and her face is contorted in fear.

Vilgefortz watches the scene with amusement.

Straggen is dragging the girl towards the exit, murmuring something into her ear, so quiet Vilgefortz can’t hear him.

Then, the girl kicks out and hits Straggen’s shin. Straggen lets go of her hair by reflex; the girl turns and kicks him in the groin, making the man fall to the floor with a groan; Vilgefortz laughs. She turns and sprints towards the exit. Vilgefortz throws out his hand with a quick spell aimed at her; she yelps when hit, then keeps running and quickly disappears in the opening of the cave.

“Damn it!” Straggen grinds out as he stands up. “She’s going to…”

“She can’t leave the shield,” Vilgefortz cuts in, waving his hand. “She’s bound to stay here as long as the shield is active. Sure, it gives her the whole castle to hide in, but there’s no risk she’ll tell anyone outside about us.”

“Why didn’t you just kill her?”

“I told you to get rid of her outside.”

Not to mention, using magic to kill her would probably detune his eyes.

Straggen stares at Vilgefortz, still breathing harshly from the hit.

“So, I can take as long as I want to find and kill her?” he asks with a predatory smile.

“Have fun,” Vilgefortz replies with a shrug.

* * *

First, Roche orders his agents to find some information about the address Geralt gave him, then he takes Thaler with him to check it. The other agent seems perfectly content having something to do. It’s a trip across the city, so they take Thaler’s car, with him driving.

Roche can’t help but ponder about what Geralt’s told him about his emotions. Haute usually looks very human, especially with his pupils round; it’s not that rare for a human to be white-haired at the age of forty-five, which is the age usually estimated for Geralt by people who don’t know him. It’s only when he doesn’t bother with the eyes and he gets seriously angry or turns into his “witcher mode”, as Thaler likes to call the state of total focus, that the inhuman part of his nature comes to light.

He turns off his “humanity” and becomes a killing machine he was created to be: his movements become much more deliberate, his eyes stop expressing any emotions, his voice is lower; if he talks at all, he does it through his teeth, slowly, measuring every word. In a fight, he’s like a force of nature, unstoppable, fast like lightning and ruthless.

Roche’s musings are interrupted when they arrive at their destination. The townhouse is abandoned and in dire need of repairs. Roche and Thaler take their guns out, check the safeties and walk in.

The floor is covered in dust, but the shoe tracks are relatively fresh: maybe from three days ago. A much thinner layer of dust shows which areas of the flat were used the most, although even the four beds don't look too cosy.

Trash is lying everywhere, but personal possessions that you would expect are gone. It’s clear that nobody lives here anymore.

“They’ve definitely been here,” Thaler says as he rummages through the trash bin, latex gloves on his hands. There are half-burnt papers: maps of the Temple Quarter and Old Vizima, schematics of the sewers, pre-bombings photos of the now destroyed police station, some notes on the schedule of the agents who were guarding Haute’s flat.

There are also photos of Cirilla Riannon-Haute, taken from afar, her neon green parka a bright dot among the greyness of the streets.

Roche purses his lips. _Poor girl._

Meanwhile, Thaler looks around the flat and quickly joins Roche in the hallway.

“The photo Geralt showed you was taken from one of the rooms,” he says. “There’s also a single bullet shell on the floor and a small blood splatter by the window.”

“They shot someone here?”

"Looks more like a graze. Whoever they shot at, the target was standing by the window and they probably fell out."

“The body is probably well on its way to the sea,” Roche murmurs.

“I’ve also found this,” Thaler shows Roche a small device, maybe five centimetres long, made of black plastic, with a small display and a short cable running out of one side.

Roche’s phone chirps just as he takes it out of his pocket to call the Royals’ forensics team.

He frowns when he reads the message.

“The whole townhouse belonged to Vermont Jonne,” he says.

“The guy that was murdered for seemingly no reason? Haute was supposed to work on him, but that was right before the bombings. We took that over and didn’t find anything.”

“Jonne was connected to Aubry, right? So, we have Roggeveen’s people living in Jonne’s flat.”

“And Aubry is very interested in the assassination plot of the King.”

Roche and Thaler look at each other. They know already there will be a lot of phone calls today.

* * *

The preliminary report on the finger comes quite quickly. The DNA test result hasn’t come in yet; the forensic pathologist estimated the age of the “owner” at around nineteen-twenty if they were human.

Geralt breathes out slowly when he reads that last bit. He knows the age can be estimated by the analysis of the x-rays of bones, it’s called the age of ossification. It’s not very precise but still helpful. Ciri’s still growing, her bones would look different, the tiny bit of the elven blood probably affecting the image further so that nineteen-twenty is another proof the finger wasn’t hers.

Not that he needs that proof, but it’s nice to have it in writing.

He turns off the email app on his phone and looks up at the townhouse he’s standing in front of. It’s in the richer part of the Trade Quarter, close to the gate to the Royal Quarter. The flats here are expensive, fancy and have a concierge.

The man sitting at the front desk knows him, so he just waves him through. Geralt takes the stairs to the fourth floor, taking two or three steps at a time. When he steps out to the corridor connecting three flats, the smell of ozone is unmistakable, but probably undetectable for people who don’t have a witcher’s nose.

He knocks on one door. After a few seconds, a slightly dishevelled Yen opens it and invites him inside by simply stepping aside.

“What does Roche say about your magic?” Geralt asks with a smirk.

“Roche can kiss my shapely arse,” Yen replies and walks into the living room.

It’s emptier than he remembers from his last visit.

“How’s the move to Vengerberg?”

“In progress,” Yen replies and removes a box from the couch, so Geralt can sit down; she takes a seat in an armchair standing opposite the couch. “Three more weeks and I’ll be done. I have a potential buyer for the flat.”

Geralt purses his lips. They’ve talked about this, about Yen moving back to her home city, along with most of the production of her company. Aedirn is slightly friendlier towards magic and the taxes there are lower. With Ciri mostly grown-up and Geralt moving on with his life, Yen has claimed they don’t need her here anymore, not as much as they used to, and she’d be happier back where she came from. Geralt didn’t try to dissuade her from that decision, but seeing the boxes and hearing he won’t be able to just come here and talk about their daughter makes him realise a certain chapter of his life comes to an end.

“I’ll be visiting, though, I’ll keep the office in Vizima,” Yen says as if she’s reading his mind. He knows that she isn’t, she probably can read his facial expression well enough.

She’s looking at him now, elegantly posed with her legs crossed at the knees and hands hanging over the armrests. Her face is soft.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she says softly.

Geralt nods, leans forwards with his elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked.

“Been gone too long. Two weeks wasted on worrying while I could have spent them looking for Ciri,” he grumbles.

“Well, from what I’ve heard, you didn’t have much choice. I can imagine some of that time was spent on staying alive, not worrying. You probably returned too soon, your gait has changed.”

“I know I’m lucky to be alive. I was told I’d be able to forecast rain only by the level of pain in my back for some time.”

Yen tilts her head to one side.

“You walk,” she says, her voice stern. She’s not angry with him: she just points out the thing he should be grateful for.

Geralt just hangs his head for a couple of seconds. When he raises it again, he looks his ex-wife straight into her dark blue, almost purple eyes.

“I know you’ve been scanning for Ciri,” he says.

“Yes.” Yen looks to the side, her face back to a business-like mask. “It took some negotiating with Roche to allow me to use magic that extensively without telling him about her abilities. And the truth is, I’ve found nothing.”

Geralt still stares at her.

“She’s disappeared completely, I’m sure she’s not behind any kind of shield; if we assume the burst of her magic ended with her teleporting somewhere, I have no idea where she’s landed. And I know her frequency, I know how to look for her.”

“I know you do,” Geralt says when she grows agitated.

“I wish I could…” she starts, but then chokes. “There’s nothing I can do, I can’t see her. I’m worried sick. I know she can handle herself, but she’s only seventeen, you know?”

“Better than anyone, Yen,” Geralt replies softly.

Yen sighs.

“There’s one person that might help, but… I have nothing to offer him in exchange.”

“Him?” Geralt frowns.

“The Aen Saevherne returned to the Castle a day or two after the bombings.”

“Avallac’h?”

Yen nods.

It’s Geralt’s turn to sigh. He and Avallac’h aren’t on the best of terms and he’s supposed to stay away from the Castle, so he doesn’t risk drawing Rience to the King, but it seems he just got another reason — other than pulling the dopplers out of their duties — to go there.

He shakes his head.

“I dream about her sometimes,” he reveals.

Yen perks up.

“At first I got the feeling that she was scared,” he continues, looking at the floor. “She… she was sick for a while, but now… She seems safe. Maybe even happy.” He pauses and looks back at Yen, whose eyes are big, she’s watching his face, like she’s looking for every slight change. “What if she’s too happy? If she forgets about us and doesn’t want to return?”

“She wouldn’t do that. She just doesn’t know how to get back, not yet. She will. I’m sure of that.”

Yen takes a deep breath.

“I’ve talked to Tissaia about Ciri’s school year,” she says. “She suggested that when Ciri returns, depending on when that happens, she may finish the year with the first term notes and then have some homework for the summer holidays. It’s a typical procedure for pupils that have solid reasons to not be able to go to classes.”

Geralt nods.

“Sounds fair.” He sighs. “It’s like fate doesn’t want her to finish school this year. First that shit with Istredd, now this… And none of it is Ciri’s fault.”

“It’s not fate, either,” Yen murmurs and looks down.

Geralt wants to believe she doesn’t blame him. It doesn’t change the fact that behind Ciri’s two biggest problems this year stands Geralt: Istredd Gynvael almost caused Ciri to fail the term because he was jealous of Geralt’s and Yen’s relationship, then Vilgefortz Roggeveen tried to kidnap Ciri to use her against him.

As for his conscience… He can’t care less about Gynvael, but he also won’t admit that some of the lonely nights in Brokilon he spent thinking he should have sent Ciri to Yen and told the girl to stay away from their flat.

And so he says “yeah”, stands up and leaves Yen’s flat, with “you’re an idiot” from her, murmured just before he closes the door behind him.

* * *

Roche stands with his arms crossed on his chest and lips pursed; Princess Anaïs’ posture is far more open, there’s a clear interest on her face.

They watch as Triss Merigold and Keira Metz are enchanting one of four rods made of some weird alloy, now mounted into the walls in four corners of the Royal Family quarters at the Castle. The square of the future protective shield contains both the King’s and the Princess’ bedrooms, their bathrooms, dining room and two offices; its role is to distort any magic inside the shield and make tracking of anyone inside difficult. King Foltest and Princess Anaïs also have protective charms to be worn at all times, even outside the shield.

“Don’t expect my father to cooperate fully with this protection plan,” Anaïs says. “I will try to keep him within the shield, but he’s already called it protective custody—”

“And he’s right,” Roche murmurs.

“— and he did not take kindly to that,” Anaïs finishes with a glare at the agent.

“Is it because of the magic?” Roche asks, trying to ignore the look in Anaïs’ eyes.

“It’s because my father is a stubborn man who does what he wants, especially when it comes to his safety,” Anaïs replies, exasperated: not with Roche, but the King. “The restrictions on magic weren’t my father’s idea; putting them in the Edict was forced on him, to counterbalance the freedoms given to non-humans. I think it was unnecessary, magic was already restricted for years, and the Edict should have regulated the usage, not ban it with some exceptions.”

Triss and Keira glance at each other, still enchanting the rod on the wall.

“My father and I aren’t against magic as a whole,” Anaïs continues. “Magic can be good. We just have to find a way to balance the freedoms and limits.”

“Sometimes it seems to be an impossible task,” Triss says from her spot by the wall.

“Not for one person to figure out, true,” Anaïs agrees, “but the Royal Family has some very good advisors.”

“One more to go,” Keira Metz announces as she lowers her hands, the spell done. “The shield should hold for a week; it’s easy to recharge, so all Your Highness needs to do is let us know if it’s needed.”

“Considering you’re the police, you should be up to date with the threats and the investigation,” Anaïs points out with a quirked eyebrow.

“The Royal Investigative Force took over Detective Haute’s case,” Triss replies. She’s pale: the spells are tiring her out. “Whether we’ll be up to date is entirely up to them.”

Roche purses his lips and doesn’t reply. They walk the Castle’s corridors to the last corner of the future shield.

Roche’s phone chirps twice. He unlocks the screen to see a message from Hardal Gielas, the Royals’ agent from Mayena, saying that he’s on his way to Vizima, per request from the Ministry of Defence. Roche knows that a few agents from the larger Royals’ posts are being sent here to help with the investigation and the protection of the Royal Family. Mayena has a more difficult job than the Gors Velen post: since the whole agency knows Roggeveen landed in southern Temeria, the Mayena post, being the closest, was tasked with finding the sorcerer’s hideout. They have no clue, so far, the magic-saturated swamp of Mealybug Moors and the deep mines of Mahakam making their job virtually impossible. More agents in Vizima mean more brainpower when it’s needed the most at the moment, though. Even Ves is coming back from Gors Velen, Roggeveen’s connections being a dead end.

The second message is from their forensic technicians. They had no trouble identifying the device found in Rience’s flat as a means to remotely hack into phones, including mobile phones. They're still working on figuring out which phone it was used on.

He notices Dudu making their rounds somewhere deeper in the corridor, which reminds him of the discrepancies in the guards’ schedule he can’t figure out yet. The changes are sudden and most of them seem unnecessary, but Roche can’t put his finger on the reason why he's bothered. Dudu has promised to keep their eye out; they stayed at the Castle after sending the other doppler, Chappelle, away.

Roche’s gut tells him something big is about to happen soon, and as he watches Triss and Keira work on the last rod in the wall, he mentally prepares himself for the shitstorm.

* * *

After a quick detour to the Chameleon for a proper, witcher-sized meal, Geralt spends the rest of the day at the station, getting up to speed with the events, drinking his tea and trying to ignore his back pain.

Roche has told him about Jonne’s connection to Rience. Geralt realises that it probably makes Jonne’s murder case closed: Jonne either knew too much, so Rience or one of his people killed him, or, as a havekar, he wanted to blackmail the group after he’d found out how “popular” Rience was in Vizima. Either way, nobody misses him.

After he returned to the station, he was surprised to find out that Lambert, of all people, got involved in checking the access points to their CCTV. Geralt was glad because Lambert is one of the very few people he can trust in the station, but he also had no idea how good with technology the other witcher was. The younger Wolf managed to find a few signs of illegal connection and broadcast to the outside, but whoever had done that is nowhere to be found now.

Lambert is still in the basement, installing new firewalls on their servers and securing phone lines. Geralt has no idea when and where he’s learnt the skills, but he’s not going to complain.

The forensic team sent him further analysis on the finger: the owner was a human woman, but she’s not in the missing persons’ or DNA database. It means it’s not Ciri’s: a dead end.

Geralt won’t be able to go see the Aen Saevherne until tomorrow, so he has to focus on other aspects of all cases that are ongoing.

Like, the “ac” source of the photos.

He knows the phone in the conference room has already been secured, the room was checked for microphones and hidden cameras and it came out clean, so he goes there after finding a phone number on his mobile. He closes the door and sits at the table facing the entrance, so nobody will surprise him by suddenly walking in.

The call is picked up after the second signal.

“Hello, do you have any idea what our favourite Vicovarian is up to these days?” Geralt says, his tone light and joyful, before the person on the other side can say anything.

“What favourite Vicovarian?” Emhyr var Emreis asks after a second of a pause. He clearly recognised Geralt.

“The charming young man I’ve met at Pavetta’s funeral.”

Emhyr huffs.

“I don’t think I want to speak to you. You lost my— our daughter,” he seethes into the phone.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow and regrets Emhyr can’t see it.

After the shootout in Gors Velen and meeting Ciri at the hospital, Emhyr calls her maybe once a week and he’s even declared he’d think about regular alimonies to a private account for Ciri to access once she turns eighteen. As far as Geralt knows, nothing has been done in that regard, so two savaeds later the man is still “thinking”. Now he calls Ciri his daughter.

Geralt doesn’t call him out on that, though. Emhyr is resourceful, it’s better to stay in his good graces when asking for a favour.

Geralt’s voice is no longer light, though.

“Well, sorry I’ve spent two weeks being patched up after having my flat blown up and my spine broken, and that I couldn’t support you mentally. I returned to Vizima only yesterday,” he says with a hint of disdain.

There’s a pause on the other side.

“Why are you asking about him?” Emhyr asks.

“A few days ago I was made to believe that our, as you put it, daughter, had been kidnapped, but I’ve just learnt that she wasn’t, so I’m looking for her and he may know something since he’s involved in this huge pile of shit of the case for some reason.”

In his office, Emhyr var Emreis purses his lips. He knows blaming Geralt for Ciri’s disappearance is unfair. Hearing about Cahir aep Ceallach’s involvement was a surprise, but one he can do something about.

“I’ll talk to some people who might know something,” he says. “His former employers, for example. I’ll let you know once I learn anything.”

“Appreciate it,” Geralt grunts and disconnects the call.

It’s fairly easy to contact the head of Nilfgaardian Intelligence, Vattier de Rideaux, given their past relations. The spymaster is very careful at first, but Emhyr is influential enough to finally get what he wants.

What he learns makes him feel sorry for aep Ceallach: the man screwed up an important case five years ago and only now was he allowed to begin to make amends for his former employers. The case — tracking Rience to either get rid of him for good or at least arrest him on behalf of the Nilfgaardian government — is practically suicidal, but the man’s been involved for the last year and presumably still alive while being left completely on his own.

Emhyr knows Rience works with Roggeveen, so aep Ceallach’s work might be important internationally and is also a high-risk kind of job. The man’s loyal, too, well trained and discreet; he could use some support, even from afar.

So, Emhyr comes up with an idea of a deal on aep Ceallach's behalf. de Rideaux isn't happy at first but finally agrees.

Emhyr quickly realises there’s nothing he can safely pass to Geralt. He can only hope that aep Ceallach will decide to meet Geralt in person, as they both will need each other’s help.

Emhyr also knows the whole thing has little to do with his daughter, but nobody, especially her, is safe while people like Rience and Roggeveen are on the loose, so if their joint efforts will help remove that danger, in the end, it's for her benefit, too.

* * *

Meetings at night outside the city walls are not Anzelm Aubry’s strong suit. He’s terrified, to be honest, even though the area is quiet and he can see the nearest gate from his spot under a tree. He had to cross the entire city to get here: right outside Old Vizima, by the road circling the bog to Swamp.

He almost jumps out of his skin when the sorcerer, Rience, suddenly shows up in front of him. Anzelm knows the man just walked quietly, as he can’t portal everywhere; he suspects the conspirators are hiding somewhere nearby, probably in one of the numerous caves around the city.

“What is it?” Rience asks.

“First of all, I don’t feel comfortable with the level of details you demand of me,” Anzelm says. “I wasn’t arrested as a suspicious party, only because one of my business associates works at the Castle.”

“So?” Rience quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I can’t snoop around the Royal Family quarters that much!”

“Quieter, for fuck’s sake,” Rience hisses. “You damn coward. Your job will be done soon, don’t you worry. What do you have for me?”

Anzelm fidgets on his feet, unsure.

Rience takes a step towards him, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. Anzelm steps back by reflex.

“We’ve discussed this before. You know what happens if you chicken out now,” he grumbles.

Anzelm swallows thickly.

“There were sorceresses today, at the Castle," he chokes out. "They set up a protective shield around the Family’s quarters. No-one without a particular artefact can cross it, only Vernon Roche and three guards, two of them working at the castle for maybe two weeks, have them; also, both the King and the Princess are wearing magical charms, I don’t know what they do. And Roche called for backup from other Royals’ posts, all the way south to Mayena.”

Rience smirks at that.

“See? It wasn't so hard,” he says with an ugly smile and breathes a cloud of ozone-smelling dust onto Anzelm’s face.

Aubry’s world turns black.

* * *

Geralt hates the fact that the only Aen Saevherne available in the area has set up his spot to be very unhelpful but wise in the Castle’s garden. He has a very uneasy feeling in his gut when he crosses the Castle’s gate in the morning.

He also hates the fact that said Aen Saevherne is Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha, also called Avallac’h. He hates it because it’s the same Aen Saevherne that a few years ago showed extensive scientific interest in Ciri’s abilities and bloodline, while completely ignoring the fact that said abilities were possessed by a thirteen-year-old human child with a traumatic childhood. Geralt had considered allowing Avallac’h to teach Ciri about her power, but after the conversation with the elf, he changed his mind. Avallac’h wasn’t interested in teaching Ciri as much as he was in studying her power. Geralt knew enough to suspect the elf would find a way to drain Ciri’s magic out of her or set her on working for him; that meeting ended with Geralt speaking some harsh words he might or might not have regretted later.

He sort of regrets them now, because Avallac’h is the only person who has the slightest chance to help him find Ciri, and he takes his pride very seriously.

Avallac’h takes his otherworldly descent very seriously, too, because he’s dressed like an elven mage from fairy tales, not an elf assimilating with the modern society: all down to the long, asymmetrical coat with feathers on the collar, arm guards on top of fingerless gloves, tall boots and a long staff with a crystal on top. Geralt thinks it’s pretentious, but he can’t voice it, since he needs to be in Avallac’h’s good graces.

The elf is tending to a spot in the corner of the inner Castle garden. None of the plants are familiar to Geralt, the flowers and leaves in the oddest of shapes and colours. They seem fine in this environment; although, judging by the soft murmurs from Avallac’h, their growth is not entirely natural.

“What brings you to me, Gwynbleidd?” Avallac’h asks when Geralt stops three steps behind him. He doesn’t turn towards the newcomer.

“Ciri,” Geralt admits simply.

“Ah, yes. She’s missing, isn’t she? I was sorry to hear that,” the elf says, sounding not sorry at all, stands up and turns to Geralt, his almond-shaped, pale eyes regarding him without emotion.

Geralt’s fingers twitch at his sides. He’s always felt small in Avallac’h presence, even though he’s taller than the elf; Geralt figures it’s the dignity of immortality, age and knowledge.

“Yennefer can’t track her,” he says. “Ciri teleported somewhere, and if she was on the Continent she’d probably find a way back by now.”

“Yes.”

“Can you help me?”

“You know my help comes with a price.”

Geralt huffs.

“When she’s back, I’ll talk to her about talking to you and letting you take a look at her powers.”

Avallac’h purses his lips.

“That’s not enough,” he says.

Geralt frowns.

“What else could you be interested in getting from me?”

“No, you’re on the right track, just your approach is not enough.”

“What, you want me to force her to come to you?” Geralt asks, feeling his anger grow.

Avallac’h shrugs.

“You’re her father, you can… influence her stronger than just discuss it.”

Geralt starts to breathe through his nose, trying to calm himself down. He knew it’d be like this. He knew he’d be asked to basically sell Ciri to the elf, but he had to try to ask him for help anyway.

There are still some lines he won’t cross at any price, no matter how painful and how hard a choice it will be. Ciri’s independence is one of them.

“I can influence her so she won’t hurt herself in some stupid way,” he drawls through his teeth. “We’re talking about her autonomy. I won’t drag her here by force.”

“Do you want to find her?” Avallac’h asks, his head tilted to the side, hands clasped behind his back, still no emotion on his face.

“Not at the price of her freedom of deciding what happens to her!”

“Then we have nothing to talk about,” Avallac’h replies and turns away to reach for his staff, propped against the wall.

“Fuck you, you manipulative cunt,” Geralt seethes. He doesn’t care whether he’ll regret those words later. “I have no guarantee you can even help me, I will not trade that for whatever you want to do to her.”

“I wouldn’t hurt her,” Avallac’h says softly, looking at Geralt over his shoulder.

“Won’t take your word for that,” Geralt barks and turns to leave.

“Geralt,” Avallac’h says softly just as Geralt is about to march off, seething. “You’re right, I don’t know where she is and I have no way of finding her. All I know is that she’s alive and probably safe.”

Geralt stops in his tracks and turns back towards him. The elf is standing facing him, his staff held in one hand, propped on the ground, the other arm hanging by his side.

“But you have no way of finding her,” Geralt says, forcing himself to calm down.

“I won’t explain how I know. I know she’s lost somewhere in the universe and can’t return on her own, but someone is looking for her and they will help her. You’ll get your daughter back. You _can_ take my word for that.”

Geralt purses his lips and looks down.

“I can’t promise she’ll come to you when she’s back,” he murmurs.

“I know. Her steadfast character only proves we’re right about her bloodline.”

Geralt glances at him and decides to be honest once again.

“When I first brought Ciri here to talk about her power, and she stayed outside the office while we talked… when I went out, she had this dread on her face. Terror, even. She was staring at your office door and she was terrified,” he reveals.

Avallac’h purses his lips.

“We both know how strong her instincts are. That’s why I didn’t want you to train her back then. Maybe she’ll change her mind when she realises she needs more training and it’s something Yen and Triss can’t help her with anymore. But it’s her decision.”

Avallac’h nods.

“I understand. Thank you for telling me this,” he says and turns back towards his flowers.

On his way through the throne room to the gate leading outside, Geralt hears a vaguely familiar voice behind him.

“Geralt!”

He turns to see King Foltest, walking briskly towards him. He feels the cold dread squeeze his insides: this is the thing he’s been afraid would happen, the sole reason he wasn’t in any hurry to go to the Castle after his return from Brokilon. It’s an open invitation for Roggeveen and Rience.

He knows about the protective shield around the Royal Family’s quarters at the Castle; he also knows that the throne room is not a part of it.

“Your Highness,” he bows shallowly, trying not to show how uneasy he feels, his flight instincts screaming at him.

“I’m glad to see you back in town,” the King says, jovial, as he reaches Geralt, puts his hand on his shoulder and starts to lead the witcher to the Family quarters. Geralt doesn’t protest, he’d be more than happy to just run there, the faster the better. “How are your investigations?”

“Could be better. It’s one of the reasons I really shouldn’t be seen in your presence.”

“Ah, yes, I was told to stay as far away from you as possible. You could ask my daughter what I think about advice like that. Moreover, I know you well enough to know I’m the safest with you. Am I?”

Geralt purses his lips and tries to speed up their pace.

“I’ll do everything to protect you, Your Highness, but I might as well bring danger on you, as the people determined to kill you—” he says and pauses. He doesn’t want to say that if the King is killed, he’ll be the one blamed for it, most likely; it’s not the message he wants to give one of the very few monarchs that treated him with respect from the very beginning of their acquaintance.

“Will use you as a scapegoat?” Foltest finishes with a smile. “Good thing my daughter is prepared and perfectly capable of taking over the throne.”

Geralt is taken aback by how lightly the King treats the threat against his life.

“Wouldn’t want to have you killed on my watch,” he grumbles.

“That would be unpleasant, true, but not the tragedy for Temeria as some may think. I believe in justice, too, so whatever those people will cook up against you, you’d find a way to bring forth the truth.”

They come around the corner of one wide corridor. Two more corners and they’ll be in the safe zone.

“You have too much faith in me or you underestimate those people,” Geralt says and puts his hand on the King’s shoulder blade to push him forward.

The corridor is empty, he notices. There were always guards or staff members milling about, now there’s nobody, just the two of them.

His medallion vibrates against his chest. Geralt reaches with his free hand to the gun on his belt.

Then a familiar human male runs from around the corner ahead of them.

“Geralt!”

“Dudu! Get the fuck away from here and stay with the Princess! Keep her in her room!” Geralt barks and the doppler turns around and sprints where they came from. “Your Highness, I’d suggest doing what my friend just did.”

The King doesn't comment and speeds up as much as his advanced age of sixty-five and his large belly allow him.

One corner and they’ll be safe.

A fiery portal opens right in front of them. Geralt yanks the gun out of the holster, then a round object is thrown from the portal towards them. Geralt pushes the King aside while drawing Quen around them both just as the object explodes. The King is thrown against the wall and slumps down, unconscious; Geralt lands on the other side of the corridor, shakes off his daze and starts shooting into the portal while still on the ground.

There’s a yelp, then Rience walks out of the portal, clutching his bleeding shoulder. Geralt, back on his feet, fires his gun again at him—

* * *

“Your Highness!”

Anaïs turns to see one of the dopplers, Dudu, barge into her room.

“They will kill the King!” Dudu shouts.

Anaïs jumps to her feet and starts to run towards the door.

“No! Geralt said to keep you here! Stay here!”

Anaïs hesitates.

“Don’t let them kill you, Your Highness!” Dudu pleads.

“My father is with Geralt Haute?” she chokes out, fists clenched by her sides.

“Yes, Princess. Stay here, please,” the doppler says, their eyes filling with tears. “If Geralt won’t be able to protect the King, please don’t let them kill you, too.”

There’s an explosion and then gunshots echoing in the corridor, then a slight pause and another gunshot.

Anaïs purses her lips, runs to the door and pushes Dudu aside. She runs out and hears the doppler running after her.

* * *

—then Rience waves his hand to the side and Geralt is thrown against the wall again by the force of the spell. He barely manages to hold onto his gun.

Geralt can see the King stirring on the floor, unhurt thanks to Geralt’s Quen, but dazed.

Rience smiles at the King like a predator, all teeth and sadistic joy in his eyes. He makes another gesture and some of the fallen bullet shells start to hover over the floor.

Geralt aims his gun again and fires at him three times in quick succession. Rience, still looking at the King, puts his hand out and the bullets stop, frozen in mid-air.

Rience turns to Geralt, smiles again, flicks his wrist. The three bullets turn and fly towards the King, who’s just managed to stand up.

“No!” Geralt shouts and jumps towards the King.

There's a whooshing sound and Geralt feels frozen in mid-motion. The only things that move are the three bullets and a man — Gaunter O'Dimm — stepping out of the portal with one of his hands raised.

Geralt can’t do anything but watch as the rounds hit the King’s body, right in the centre of his chest.

* * *

Anaïs stands, frozen, peeking around the corner, watching the scene.

She’s not frozen because of the magic. She knows they haven’t seen her or Dudu crouching behind her back. She feels cold, her throat tight, eyes wide, and she’s unable to move, paralysed in fear and shock.

* * *

Another whooshing sound and the King’s body lands in a heap on the floor. Rience barks out a laugh and steps back into the portal, walking backwards around O’Dimm. Geralt lands on the floor, too, loses his gun that slides on the marble to the far wall. He props himself on his elbows and looks between King Foltest’s dead body and Gaunter O’Dimm, who watches him with a soft smile.

“Don’t worry,” O’Dimm says. For some reason, Geralt doesn’t feel that dread he felt when they first met at the Attorney General’s building months ago. He feels more dead inside than anything else. “This is the last time I’m required to help Vilgefortz Roggeveen. If you need my help looking for him, just find me on the crossroads.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt grinds out.

O’Dimm gives him a fake, pleasant politician’s smile.

“Good luck, Geralt Haute. Until next time,” O’Dimm says and steps through the portal, which closes right behind him.

Geralt stands up on wobbly legs. He can hear the heavy steps of the running guards.

_Of course._

Soon, he’s surrounded by a circle of unfamiliar, angry faces. There’s a clink of handcuffs. Geralt lets the guards cuff his hands behind his back and he feels his spark of Power diminish to nothing: the cuffs are made of dimeritium.

Someone kicks his legs from behind and he falls onto his knees. Another guard aims a gun at his head.

“Do you have anything to say?” the guard with the gun barks.

Geralt closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I’ll go hide under that rock over there again and you feel free to scream at me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People meet, people talk… a.k.a. the aftermath of the Major Plot Event No. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicide warning: if you wish to avoid reading about the details, see the endnotes for which parts to skip.
> 
> Do you remember that map I linked to at the beginning? I still use it. Hereby I declare that Armeria (a town/city in the southern Temeria/Sodden, at the edge of Mealybug Moors) and villages around it don’t exist in my AU. I need the area between the Moors, Vidort and Carcano to be devoid of cities/towns/villages. Okay? Thank you. Let’s proceed with the fic.

Anzelm Aubry has no idea why he’s spent the whole night in the shrubs right outside the Old Vizima city walls. He considers himself lucky he wasn’t robbed or killed; he’s just stiff and cold and in his damp clothes.

To his great relief, he finds his car by the gate, within the city walls. He finds the keys after a quick pat on his pockets, sits in the driver’s seat, turns on the engine and sets the heating to full.

He remembers he always has some sweet snacks in the glove compartment, checks there and finds a chocolate bar; he devours it in three bites.

It takes him twenty minutes to get his senses fully back, although he’s still unsure why was he outside? Was he kidnapped and dumped outside the city? But why wasn’t he robbed, then? If it was foul play, why was his car nearby?

Ten minutes later he feels well enough to drive home. It’s around eleven in the morning when he reaches his estate.

His wife runs out the front door the moment she sees his car. Her hair is a mess, her face is red and puffy.

“Anzelm!” she exclaims, takes his hand and drags him inside the house before he even manages to lock the car.

“What is it?” he asks. It’s the first time he’s seen his wife in such a state.

“King Foltest has been murdered!” she cries and it’s like a bucket of ice-cold water was dumped on Anzelm’s head. He stops, rooted to the floor, his wife still trying to drag him deeper into the house.

He remembers. He remembers Rience, the meeting outside the city, the last information Anzelm gave him about the guards, Rience’s threats, then the powder and darkness.

It wasn’t supposed to happen! They simply opposed the King’s politics regarding non-humans and disagreed with most of the social ideas the Royal Family had. They wanted to undermine the Royal Family’s plans, stop this march towards society's destruction!

Then they got dragged into this conspiracy and the conspirators won. The King was dead.

They should have refused the first time this Gaunter O’Dimm appeared in their home. They should have known it wasn’t about opposing the politics when they were asked about the security detail in the Castle.

How come they’ve been so stupid?

“What about the Princess?” he asks in a monotone voice.

“They said she’s being cared for. I don’t know what that means, whether she was injured or not.”

“So she’s alive. For now, at least.”

Rosalinda nods, fresh tears in her eyes, still holding his hand.

Anzelm lets go of her and turns away.

“Where have you been the whole night?” she asks softly.

He turns back to her abruptly.

“I helped them. I helped them kill the King,” he says and walks past her towards the stairs, dragging his feet to his study. He locks the door behind him once he’s inside.

His wife stays downstairs, frozen in shock.

* * *

Nobody has called Avallac’h onto the scene, but the guards, agents and police officers don’t stop him when he shows up. The King’s body has already been taken; there are markings around blood splatters on the floor, some bullet shells, a gun. He’s careful to not disturb anything and he can see the law enforcement officers appreciate it.

He’s drawn to a spot a few meters from the blood splatters. He murmurs a spell and the very faint — invisible to a human eye — scorch marks on the floor become much more apparent.

“Fire sorcerer,” he says to a nearby Royals’ agent. The man, addressed as Thaler by one of his colleagues, nods sombrely. “There was a portal.”

“We haven’t detected portal magic,” Thaler says.

“Something else obscured it,” Avallac’h replies and makes a wide gesture with his staff. A thin dark fog appears in the corridor, filling the space around the murder scene, including the post-portal scorch marks.

“What is it?” Thaler asks.

“Another kind of magic,” Avallac’h says after a few seconds of silence. “One you don’t know and can’t detect. Very old, very powerful, more powerful than anything you can imagine. No sorcerer can possess it. Someone else was here.”

“Who?” the agent asks. Other people at the scene stare at Avallac’h, taking in his every word.

“One who can only be described as a demon,” Avallac’h replies after another pause, waves his staff to make the scorch marks and the fog disappear, then he turns around and walks away towards his garden.

Only when he’s out of sight does he allow himself to shake off the coldness that gripped his insides the moment he stepped into the murder scene.

* * *

_THE KING’S DEAD, LONG LIVE… THE QUEEN?_

_Where is Her Highness, Princess Anaïs La Valette, the rightful heir of the Temerian throne?_

_A white-haired, tall man was arrested as he was standing over the King’s body. The news won’t tell you , but that man has quite the history with the King._

_We all know him. It’s the witcher who lifted Princess Adda’s striga curse. People said it inspired the King into heralding the (in)famous Edict._

_He worked at the police station that was blown up, he was INSIDE the station at the time._

_And today he was found standing over the King’s body. The bullets that killed our ruler were proved to have been shot from his gun. Interesting, don’t you think?_

_He’s now kept in the guard’s wing inside the Castle. Good to know those old dungeons can still be put into the proper use._

_Remember how I promised you some juicy details about the man? He has a long history of being at the scene of events of great destruction. Have you heard of Rinde, the small Redanian town by the Pontar, that was half destroyed eighteen years ago? Movies were made about that, none of them was even close to the truth. And yet, the witcher was there, with a sorceress, hunting a djinn. They destroyed half of the town with a bit of magic. I've heard they got married sometime after that. Nothing bonds a couple together more tightly than chaos and magic._

_What about Blaviken? They teach about the massacre at school. Fifteen people died that day on the town’s main square, a tall man with white hair and a sword on his back right at the centre of it, walking away from the pools of blood on the cobblestones._

_Draw your own conclusions._

* * *

“What a mess,” Roche murmurs as he reads the notes about what they know about the assassination. The room is dark, he only has a table lamp to help him, the illumination from the room behind the one-way mirror not helping.

“And you’re making it worse,” Ves says, sitting next to him, with the view on the mirror, her feet propped up on the table.

“ _I_ am making it worse?! I didn’t start it!” Roche argues.

“You’re not making it better, either,” Ves shrugs.

Thaler walks in.

“Still not talking?” he asks, glancing through the mirror at the man sitting on the bed in the cell on the other side of it. He joins his colleagues at the table, with his back to the mirror.

“Oh, he was talking,” Ves says. “He was saying everything he’d seen until Gielas decided to try to force him to sign a testimony that had nothing to do with what he’d said.”

“Gielas is on his way back to Mayena, I’ve already called his CO,” Roche grumbles. “And this fucking website, why is it still up? It’s the same site that published the details about the difference between Carre’s death and the rest of Roggeveen’s convoy.” He throws a print-out on the table.

“That’s Roggeveen,” they hear a familiar voice and Philippa Eilhart walks into the already cramped room, all high heels, leather skirt and jacket, her hair in two black braids, and an air of power all over her. “Cause chaos and make it as deep as possible, using every resource and insider he could find. We did know Roggeveen was going to go after Haute.”

“But what now?” Thaler asks. “Haute could be accused of murdering the King of Temeria. Even if he won’t be, his life will be hell because of what that website published, because the public doesn’t change its mind back so easily if there’s anything to feed the negative rumours. Will that be enough for Roggeveen or will he decide to do something more?”

“I don’t think Roggeveen is going to go after Princess Anaïs,” Eilhart shakes her head and leans against the wall with her hands in her jacket pockets. “How is she, by the way? Have you got any news?”

“She’s cared for by her personal physician, I’ve heard about some mild sedatives being in use,” Ves says.

The four agents sit or stand in silence for a few seconds, pondering.

Ves is the first to break the silence.

“We checked some channels on the people who were openly anti-non-humans, there’s panic, people disappear.”

“They got what they wanted and now they panic,” Thaler snorts.

“Except I don’t think they got it,” Roche argues. “Princess Anaïs is an even stronger advocate for equality than her father was. Foltest started it, but the committee Haute was a member of was her idea and she was leading it.”

“Except it doesn’t matter since you’re probably looking at the regency council rule and Roggeveen doesn’t care about non-humans or equality or the lack of it,” Philippa says. “He cares about this situation,” she points at the mirror. “This is exactly what he wanted, Haute in deep shit and his life destroyed. A whole country in chaos doesn’t matter to him, it’s just an additional perk.”

“How sure are we that Haute killed the King?” Roche asks, looking at the papers on the table.

“We’re not,” Thaler grumbles with a sharp look at him.

* * *

The call comes late in the evening, just as Triss Merigold, drained after the whole day of work, is about to leave the station and go home. It’s answered by the dispatch and directed to Triss’ desk.

Fifteen minutes later she’s at Mrs and Mr Aubry’s house, accompanied by Eskel and the EMT team. The detectives walk through the open door, guns in hand.

“Mrs Aubry?” Triss calls. Something falls to the floor with a thud somewhere in front of them. They rush there to find the lady of the house, unconscious, her breathing slow, shallow and raspy. The EMTs push past the detectives to examine the woman.

“Poisoning,” one of them mutters. “Damn it, we should’ve taken Marti Sodergren with us.”

One of the EMTs rushes back outside to get a stretcher. Eskel stays with Rosalinda, Triss goes upstairs.

The door to the study is open.

Triss sighs.

Anzelm Aubry lies on the floor by his desk in a pool of blood, with a hole in the right side of his head. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, unmoving. There’s a resignation on his face.

In his right hand is a small revolver, held in a loose grip.

Triss glances around. The room is tidy, nothing seems out of place, suggesting a fight. Even a stack of papers on the desk is aligned.

 _For the Police,_ the topmost paper says. Triss frowns. She takes photos of the stack with her phone and then starts to read the paper on top.

 _I know the police will find our connection to the assassination plot,_ it says. _We’ve never intended for the King to be killed. We fought for what we believed in, for the consistency of the human culture in Temeria. King Foltest’s actions went against those beliefs and we had the right to let it be known. We shouldn’t have been ignored, treated as enemies._

_But we never intended for the King to be killed._

Under that were the details of Aubry’s involvement with the assassins.

Rience. Gaunter O’Dimm. The meetings. Aubry spying at the Castle. His reports about the guards’ movements. Rience’s possible contacts within the Castle guard. Information drop points.

Triss glances at the body on the floor.

“One last good act from you, you damn coward,” she murmurs and takes her phone out of her pocket to call Eskel, so she won’t have to shout across the big house. When she unlocks the screen, she sees that there’s a message from him: _RA died on the way to the hospital._

* * *

Nobody in the guards’ wing at the Castle can sleep that night. Everyone involved is focused on processing the information that started to flood in around midnight. Triss Merigold and Eskel Garde sent in the papers from Anzelm Aubry’s house, keeping Roche, Thaler and Philippa Eilhart busy through the night. Ves plays liaison with the outside world, keeping in touch with the forensic pathologist’s office to try to get the autopsy report as soon as possible, and trying to get some response from the Attorney General’s office.

The Royals’ agents know that keeping Geralt Haute in the cell became illegal the moment the agent Hardal Gielas assaulted him over the fabricated testimony. Haute should have been given a solicitor and then promptly released, but none of this has happened, even though there are people, like Countess Anna Kameny, who are offering their attorneys’ help.

Roche quickly got a proper excuse for keeping Haute contained: moving around the city is hard at the moment because of the riots that started shortly after the article on the website was published, the people practically demanding the Kingslayer’s blood. Roche is simply protecting Haute from getting lynched.

By eight o’clock in the morning, the website spilling insider-level facts sprinkled with hate is taken down, thanks to the Attorney General’s office’s intervention.

Roche glances through the mirror inside the holding room. Geralt is kneeling on the bunk, dressed in prison-issue grey sweats, his hands on his knees, eyes closed, face relaxed like in sleep. Thaler called the position “meditation”, second best to actual sleep for a witcher. It’s something the monster hunter can wake up from in an instant; it only shows Geralt doesn’t allow himself to fully relax.

Roche can’t blame him.

The holding room is relatively comfortable when you’re ignoring the issue of lack of privacy. There’s a small en-suite with a shower and clean towels, the bunk is fairly comfortable, the lights were dimmed during the night, Geralt is given meals appropriate for a witcher three times a day. He doesn’t talk, even to Thaler, with whom he’s the most friendly of the Royals. He doesn’t make demands, he hasn’t called for a solicitor. He just ignores them, like he’s waiting for something.

That something is probably the pile of evidence that he hasn’t murdered King Foltest, and someone to make an official decision to let him out of there, preferably under protection.

“Autopsy and ballistic reports came in,” Ves says softly as she enters the room with an envelope under her arm and three mugs of coffee in her hands. It’s ten o’clock, exactly twenty-four hours after the assassination.

She sets the mugs on the table. Three sleepy agents — Roche, Thaler and Philippa — reach for them and sip the soup-thick beverage.

Ves leans against the wall by the mirror, using the light from the cell to help her read the fine print of the report.

“First, ballistics: the bullets were shot from the gun registered to Geralt Haute, only his fingerprints were taken from it. Autopsy report says that the entry wounds and the blood splatters are consistent with a bullet shot at close range and three-quarters of standard velocity, but there’s no gunpowder residue around the wounds, so the distance must have been at least a metre, and with this velocity, there is no way the bullets would go through and through like they did, and not with the exit wounds looking like they did.” She pauses. “With that velocity, there shouldn't have been the exit wounds at all, yet the trajectory of the bullets are straight lines through tissues and bone, which is impossible.”

“Slow bullets? With Geralt’s gun being a standard issue, did they come to any conclusions about the reason for that?” Roche asks.

“They suggest magic manipulation, albeit very carefully. Like someone took control of the bullets and pushed them through the King’s body. Just like Geralt said.”

“Couldn’t’ve been Geralt, then,” Thaler says. “His magic is much simpler.”

“There’s that Yrden sign, Geralt said it can slow bullets,” Roche argues.

“But not make them basically drill through a body,” Thaler scoffs. “Come on, let’s face it, so far the evidence shows someone else was involved. Geralt said so, talking about Rience and this Gaunter O’Dimm figure we can’t find anything about. Those guards who were working for Geralt and then for you, one of them wanted to talk to you right after the assassination…”

“They wouldn’t have told me anything we could’ve used since an involvement of civilians would put this investigation in an even deeper shit than it is in right now,” Roche cuts in.

“I still don't get it, they could have been a witness and you just sent them away, but you're the CO here,” Thaler shrugs.

“Yes, I am.”

“And, the Aen Saevherne spoke about the portal and demonic involvement…”

“Detected by magic, no use for us in court.”

“But still a clue! Roche, you’re no better than Gielas with that holding onto the idea that Haute killed Foltest without reason!”

“Don’t you dare compare me to Gielas,” Roche snaps. “It’s all incidental evidence, there’s nothing watertight. We have no idea whether Geralt worked with Rience…”

“Now you’re being an idiot,” Eilhart groans and rubs her face with her hands, trying to stay awake.

“Where the hell is Haute’s daughter!” Roche shouts as he springs to his feet. “Where the fuck is she?! That finger wasn’t hers, but it doesn’t mean they’re not using her against Haute, forcing him to work for them! There were no solid eyewitnesses, nothing to indicate Haute tried to protect the King or that he didn’t bring those people into the Castle!”

“You’ve read Aubry’s papers, Geralt wasn’t involved in any of that!” Thaler argues back, just as loud.

“Roggeveen probably waited until Geralt was left alone with the King,” Eilhart says calmly. “One signal from a corrupted guard was enough to have Rience and this O’Dimm figure attack them. As I said, this is exactly what Roggeveen wants, and you’re still being an idiot. You need Haute to work with you, and even though I don’t know him nearly as well as you two, I can guarantee that his cooperation is less likely the longer he sits in that room.”

* * *

It took Cahir five days of hiding and looking for witnesses and other clues to get to Razwan in southern Temeria. He has a long list of contacts to get through in search of Rience and Roggeveen, but none of them was willing to help him; the rest evaporated on the day of the King's assassination.

He knows about it, of course. It’s hard to avoid this kind of news even when you try to stay as incognito as possible. The news didn’t specify who exactly was arrested — or even that a suspect was in custody, only a possible witness — but judging by the course of Rience’s actions before Cahir was ‘shot’, they aimed their accusations at Geralt Haute.

 _Haute is an easy target,_ he thinks, staking outside Jan Asper’s house in Razwan’s suburbs, hidden on a tree with a great view on the house. _He’s too connected to the Royal court, has too much history with the King. He also messed up too much in his past._ Cahir doesn’t doubt that the stories on the taken down website were true. Someone as old and as prone to get involved as Haute, and with his occupation, is bound to make mistakes.

Cahir doubts it will matter in the long shot. Haute gets his job done. Being in temporary conflict with the law won’t stop him from looking for Roggeveen, it will only fuel his determination.

For now, he's in prison in Vizima, though, and Cahir is on the other end of the country, south of Mayena and disturbingly close to Mealybug Moors with its insects, diseases and legends about monsters and curses still lurking in the darkness and dampness of the ancient bog.

Razwan is a small, poor town built around an old castle, now mostly in ruins. The local industry is based on the Ina River and road transportation, as the main roads lead from Mayena through Razwan to Sodden. It’s never had the chance to become a major port like Gors Velen. Mealybug Moors play a large role in keeping Razwan small and unfriendly for newcomers. People here had to defend themselves from monsters and dark magic often enough that they started to avoid all strangers.

The lights in Asper’s flat blink in the sequence they agreed upon when they set up this meeting. Cahir climbs from one branch to the other, growing on the side of the tree away from the flat, so he can jump off the tree unnoticed from the street.

The lights in the flat are turned off, the front door opens a crack.

Cahir looks around. The street is quiet, there are some cars parked on the pavement, but for the three hours he’s been watching the neighbourhood, he hasn’t noticed anything suspicious. He walks maybe one hundred metres down the street in a pace of a person that has to get somewhere, but isn’t in a hurry, with his head bowed and hands in his jacket pockets, listening carefully to the sounds around him. There’s nothing suspicious, but excess cautiousness saved his life more than once, so he crosses the street, stays in the shadows for five more minutes, then goes back to Asper’s flat.

It’s still dark inside. He’d prefer to enter from the back, but he has no access to the backyard. He draws his gun, turns the safety off, crouches low and sneaks into the flat through the front door.

There’s a dim light on the other end of the hallway. Cahir goes there on light feet, gun still held in steady grip in front of him.

“I’m here,” the voice he recognised from their phone call says from the lit room.

Cahir stops by the door to the room.

“You’ve got what I asked for?” he asks.

“Yeah, an address of some of Rience’s old acquaintances,” Asper says and stands up from the armchair he was sitting in. “I’m surprised you haven’t met him yet, your network of assets is about as wide as Rience’s.”

Cahir scoffs.

“I have no idea where you got that impression.”

“Some weird people are asking about you.” Asper stands in front of Cahir, an envelope in his hand. He looks mild, there’s nothing intimidating about him; even his voice is soft and level.

"What do you mean, weird?" Cahir asks, taking the envelope. He opens it and sees a list of Rience’s contacts; there’s also a note with a code.

He makes sure his face doesn’t show what he feels about the code. He knows this string of letters and numbers, he’s seen it before, on another undercover job a very long time ago. It's both good and bad news.

Good, because this code means that someone is using their influence to help get Cahir back on his ex-boss’ good graces. He has no idea why anyone would decide to help him, especially now.

Bad news, because Asper and his network are smart people and it’s highly likely they know what this code means, too. If they figure out Cahir is a double agent of the Nilfgaardian Intelligence...

He glances at Asper, but the man’s eyes flick to something behind Cahir.

He doesn’t even manage to turn or duck. Something heavy lands on the back of his head and he’s gone.

* * *

Milva flies out of Brokilon before sunrise, so when she sees the thin line of the Ina River, it's already daytime.

 _Something dark is lurking in the Moors,_ Eithné said as she gave Milva the glass orb that is now lying on the passenger seat next to Milva. Inside the glass swirls a white, opalescent, smoke-like substance, glowing softly.

The weather is perfect for a flight, with mild wind and almost no clouds in the sky. Milva took the southern route after the takeoff, first heading southeast, then east along the Burnt Stump, the stone circles of Fen Carn, and silver lines of the O, A and Chotla rivers leading her towards the Ina and Mealybug Moors.

The closer she gets, the darker the smoke in the glass becomes. She recognises Razwan’s city walls and the engine gives a slight stutter.

This sound is different from the one it gave when she flew to Vizima.

“Sor’ca?” Eithné’s voice comes from the radio. “Turn back. It’s bad, it’s dangerous. It's worse than ever since the Battle. Something dark is using the old magic, curses the land. Turn back immediately.”

Milva glances at the glass: the smoke is black now. She’s never seen anything like this before. Eithné can feel the magic of this place through the orb, so Milva has every reason to take her seriously.

“Turning back,” she reports and turns the wheel just as her aircraft flies over Chotla. She can see Mealybug Moors under her.

And then the engine coughs once, twice, and then dies.

“Damn it!”

* * *

“Someone knows more than we do,” Philippa says as she enters the room the next morning. She takes the remote and turns on the tv standing on a table in the corner.

On the screen is national news and Keira Metz is giving a statement:

“We established without a doubt that Geralt Haute, the police detective arrested on suspicion of playing a role in King Foltest’s assasination, is innocent and will be treated as a witness from now on, not a suspect. He’s released as we speak. I know of the atmosphere in the city after the assassination; as I said, Geralt Haute is not a suspect and any attack on him will be treated as an assault on a police officer with all its consequences.”

“How do they know that?” Roche asks with a frown just as the door opens and Olgierd von Everec, the Attorney General of Temeria, walks in, dressed in his typical suit with a tie, and a couple of rings and signets on his fingers. His red hair and beard are immaculately trimmed, as usual.

“I really hope you know how much you fucked up, agent Roche,” he says and drops a thick file on the table.

Roche purses his lips. Philippa mutes the tv. Thaler sits at the table and looks at the file.

"I've heard about your excuse for keeping Haute here," von Everec continues, standing by the table, propped on his fists. "Still, he should have been either released or put in a safe house if you're so worried about his safety. Nothing against him would hold in court, not after the way you handled the whole situation. Why is he still here? What are you trying to accomplish, besides pissing him off?"

“He didn’t ask for a solicitor,” Roche starts lamely. “He didn't try to defend himself.”

Thaler opens his mouth, but von Everec doesn't let him say anything:

“Because he’s ninety-six-year-old, often considered non-human, survived the witcher pogrom at twenty-something and worked in the system for the last sixteen years, so he knows not to put his freedom in someone else’s hands. We have the recording of your agent trying to force him to sign a false testimony and then hitting him when Haute refused, and since Haute has total control over his body functions, he's going to make that bruise last as long as possible just for everyone to see, making anything that he might say to incriminate himself useless for the prosecution in court because he’ll have perfectly valid evidence of being forced into the confession.”

That has been their biggest mistake, and Geralt made sure everyone has seen the bruise. It’s still visible on his face, a proper, two days old, purple, human bruise. It should be long gone from a witcher. It only shows that Geralt is really angry at them: he uses the law he’s very familiar with against them now.

“It doesn't matter, anyway,” von Everec flops down on the chair standing next to him. “We have the full autopsy report, confirming the initial findings of the magically manipulated bullets. Also, we have an eye witness.”

“Who?” Roche asks.

“Princess Anaïs La Valette. She hid behind the corner and saw the King’s death. She couldn’t testify before due to shock, but we have no doubts she’s telling the truth.”

“Geralt didn’t see her there. He didn’t say anything.”

“As if any of you gave a fuck about what Haute had seen,” von Everec drawls through his teeth. “I need to talk to him. Eskel Garde brought his things, so let him change, and get him out of that fucking cell.”

Roche nods. He knows how angry von Everec is by the number of curses. The Attorney General is usually much more reticent; Roche is fully aware he’s the sole reason for the man’s anger. von Everec can easily destroy his career and Roche has nothing to say for himself.

A half an hour later Geralt Haute steps into Roche’s office, dressed in black jeans and a dark grey jumper. His back is stiff, he looks tired, with his hair dishevelled and two days worth of scruff on his face. His pupils are vertical: he doesn’t care to appear human now, not around the people who know him. The bruise on his face is now a faded yellow patch; Roche’s sure it will be fully gone by the end of this conversation.

von Everec sits at Roche’s desk, with the main occupant of the office sitting in a chair opposite him, like a customer. Haute sits in the other armchair, crosses his arms on his chest and looks at von Everec, completely ignoring Roche.

“You’re not a suspect anymore, but a key witness,” von Everec starts. “We need your testimony.”

“Already gave one,” Haute replies with a shrug.

“You’re not talking to the Royals but to me, Geralt. What happened two days ago? What were you doing at the Castle?”

Geralt watches him for a second, then huffs and starts:

“Talked to the Aen Saevherne about my daughter. Roggeveen doesn’t have her, so she must have teleported somewhere and I hoped he’d help me find her.”

“ _She_ teleported or _was_ teleported?”

Geralt purses his lips.

“She’s unregistered,” he admits.

He ignores the sharp intake of air by Roche. von Everec only frowns.

“Anyway, he told me little, I went to leave, met the King on my way out. Couldn’t say ‘sorry, no time’ to him, could I.”

“And then?”

Geralt tells them everything, including the meeting with Dudu Biberveldt on the way. He repeats his initial testimony without changes, with the same amount of details. von Everec makes notes during all of this, sometimes asking questions.

Geralt answers one of the most important:

“The people that connect the assassination to Roggeveen are Rience and Gaunter O’Dimm, who is also some kind of sorcerer or someone even more powerful: he can stop time. I’ve met him during the last case before I went to Gors Velen.”

“The Aen Saevherne said something about demonic magic,” Roche says.

“He certainly gives a weird air, it’s unsettling,” Geralt admits.

“Making a witcher afraid, that’s a new one,” von Everec comments.

Geralt shrugs.

“He doesn’t exist officially, I’ve checked. He’s a ghost. No wonder Roggeveen is dealing with him.”

They sit in silence for a short while, processing.

“You’re released, no charges,” von Everec says and leans back in the chair. “I have to warn you, though, the world outside is a mess. The public is against you, also, the Redanian Home Office is sending me a lot of queries about your activities in Rinde and Blaviken after some website dug up that shit.”

“Of course they are,” Geralt snorts.

“Geralt, I have to respond to them.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Whatever they’re interested in, it happened a very long time ago. Eighteen years for Rinde and thirty for Blaviken.”

“You know they still can make your life hard. You don’t need to be the wild card now.”

“What’s curious is that they’re only interested in the fact that I was there, they never ask about the reasons. In Rinde, it was a contract that went wrong. In Blaviken…”

“It was a massacre.”

“Yeah, of a criminal group that intended to blow up the town hall and kill hundreds of people in the town square. They only remember the massacre, everyone is eager to forget the explosives that were found in the basement of the town hall a month later. I was never even persecuted. Talk to Dijkstra about the queries. Sigismund Dijkstra, the head of the Redanian Secret Service.”

“I know who he is. Are you even still an asset to Dijkstra, with all this mess around you?” von Everec asks.

“Ask Eilhart then, I know she’s in the city.”

“Alright," von Everec sighs. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll leave for my office, because now you’re going to have some more conversations with various people and I’m sure I shouldn’t hear what will be said, for the good of the investigation. Then Roche, the police and probably Philippa Eilhart will give you what they have about Roggeveen and the assassins because we know what you will do when you leave here. Then, our brave and useless and law-breaking Royals team will go back to Gors Velen to deal with their old cases before I fire them all. You will do your thing and stay alive to see this mess to the end. Do we understand each other?”

Both Geralt and Roche nod, their lips pursed and solemn expressions on their faces.

* * *

Cahir wakes up in the boot of a moving car. His hands are tied in front of him with a rope, his ankles are tied, too; also, he can feel a strip of material running between his jaws, with the knot at the back of his head.

He feels a stab of panic in the close confines, but a couple of deep breaths through his nose help him calm down. He has no idea how long he’s been unconscious, but judging by how full his bladder feels and how numb his fingers are, it must have been hours.

He has some space here, someone keeps their car pretty tidy. Better for him, as he starts to move. Pins and needles start to run through his fingers; he manages to reach his ankles and it’s quick work to untie the ropes. He can’t quite reach the knot on his wrists, but that’s fine, he has enough range of movement. He removes the gag.

The car engine gives a weird stutter. Cahir’s pretty good with cars, so he quickly realises that it’s either running out of petrol, or something else is happening.

Razwan is close to Mealybug Moors, he remembers. The road they’re on now is bumpy, clearly in disrepair.

Mealybug Moors “hate” technology. Almost everything electronic or running on engines is bound to break down around here. If it was Asper who kidnapped him, he must have known that, living so close. Cahir wonders why they are driving through there, people tend to avoid the place like a plague, and for good reasons.

The engine chokes again. Cahir looks around the boot and sees the rear lights of the car. He aims carefully and kicks them as hard as he can. The plastic breaks easily. Two more kicks, accompanied by further engine choking sounds and the lights are out, falling to the road. Through the hole, he can see that it’s full daytime and that they’re driving a road through fields, so they’re at the edge of the Moors, not that far from Razwan. They must have been driving for an hour or two, at most. What were they doing for most of the night? And what was happening to him when he was unconscious?

The road’s empty, so there’s no-one to maybe report on a car without one rear light and two bound wrists sticking out. Cahir uses a sharp edge to cut the ropes and it’s quick work; he even manages to not cut himself. He tries to reach the boot lock from outside, but his arm is too short and in the wrong position.

When the first mangled trees appear in his field of vision, the car engine gives one last hiccup and dies. Cahir can hear two male voices — one of them Asper’s — cursing. The car shakes slightly when two people exit it, one of them walks around to the back of the car.

Cahir hides his arm back and searches the boot for some sort of a weapon. He finds the fire extinguisher and tears the safety off.

“Oh, you fucker,” the unfamiliar voice says and the boot opens.

Cahir fires the extinguisher at the man’s face, who covers his eyes with a scream and takes a step back. Cahir climbs out of the boot as fast as he can, stiff as he is, and flings the extinguisher at the man’s head. He falls like a stone, unconscious. Cahir hears Asper running to him just in time to dodge a fist aimed at his head. He flings the fire extinguisher and hits Asper on his shoulder. The man yells in pain and staggers back. He reaches towards his back and Cahir doesn’t wait for him to probably take a gun out. He hits Asper on his head; there’s a sickly crunch and the man falls on the road, blood splatters from the wound on his temple. Cahir watches the man, glancing at the second man from time to time, as well.

Asper doesn’t breathe.

“Shit,” Cahir murmurs. He has to work fast now. He’s not worried about potential witnesses, but he has to get rid of the bodies and the car.

He wipes his fingerprints from the fire extinguisher and throws it to the floor of the car behind the front seats. He finds coils of rope, the same that was used on him. He gags and blindfolds the other man, then he binds his wrists behind his back and his ankles, then ties them together in a hogtie and, after some huffing and cursing, puts the still unconscious man in the boot of the car and closes it.

He searches Asper’s pockets and finds his smartphone. The man didn’t use a lock on his screen and the battery is almost full. The phone didn’t die for some reason, there’s even some reception, which is good.

A quick search of the car brings up the papers Asper gave him and the note with the code that probably caused all this trouble for him.

A movement in the sky draws his attention to a small aircraft. The propeller doesn’t move, so the aircraft is probably another technological “victim” of the Moors. It’s low above the ground and Cahir can see the pilot: a blond woman, judging by the length of the hair. The aircraft glides towards the fields, away from him, so the pilot probably hasn’t seen him.

He has to hurry.

Cahir uses Asper’s phone to use the code. It’s an access code to an email account, which can be viewed using the login and password only Cahir knows. There, Cahir finds notes from his ex-boss, Vattier de Rideaux, the newest from earlier this morning, the oldest from three days ago.

He reads that Emhyr var Emreis was asking about him in connection to the investigation against Vilgefortz Roggeveen and the sorcerer Rience. Homer Straggen increased his gang’s activity in Sodden, especially around the place where the Ina River flows into the Yaruga. Rience stayed around Vizima after the King’s assassination, meaning he doesn’t intend to leave the city any time soon.

Another message pings just as Cahir is about to close the email. _Geralt Haute will be released from prison later in the day, no charges._

Cahir purses his lips. He’s almost certain that this sudden interest from his boss is only thanks to Geralt, who must have recognised him from the emails with photos and, probably, CCTV recordings, and called Emhyr var Emreis. In the end, Cahir got sudden and unexpected support from his old workplace, which is great news and gives him a direction where he should go next.

Geralt will probably need every piece of info on Rience and Roggeveen he can get, and Cahir considers himself a very good source.

The small aircraft disappeared, but with the low altitude it was at the last time Cahir has seen it, it shouldn’t be hard to find.

Cahir drags Asper’s body to the car and dumps him on the back seat after emptying all of his pockets. He turns off the smartphone and breaks it, then he wipes his fingerprints as thoroughly as he can from everything he thinks he’s touched. He releases the car’s handbrake and pushes the vehicle towards the roadside and off the road, into the bushes.

It rolls out of sight.

He doesn’t care what will happen to the second man. He wonders whether this was what Asper and the other man intended to do to him.

Cahir turns towards the estimated location of the aircraft and starts to walk, his pockets full of papers, keys and Asper’s money.

* * *

Geralt stands up from his seat the moment the door closes after Olgierd.

“Where are the rest of my things?” he asks, his tone dull.

Roche goes behind his desk and passes him a backpack. Geralt looks inside, still standing, takes out his phone and turns it on.

The screen and the case are clean, shining even. Far cleaner than this phone has ever been.

Geralt glances at Roche, who is simply watching him.

Roche is tired, too, he notices. Geralt meditated in his luxurious cell, Roche has spent the last two days awake and thinking. It doesn’t change the fact that someone has taken a very close look at his phone and then wiped all fingerprints.

He shouldn’t be angry, it’s a standard procedure, but everything that happened to him after that first confession was an insult to him. He’s rarely offended, but he expected better of Roche.

“We found a device in the flat at the address you gave me,” Roche says, his voice hoarse. “I’ve just learnt that it was used to tap into your phone via the SIM card, probably to listen to your calls. It’s disconnected now.”

Geralt looks at his phone. Tapping to the SIM card means they were still connected when Dandelion brought him the new phone. It certainly explains a few things.

“I need to talk to Thaler,” Geralt says. He finds the keys to his flat, to Regis’, and for Roach. He also finds a pendant: not his medallion, because he was allowed to keep it after his arrest, but a weird trinket that makes the wolf coin on his chest vibrate, detecting magic. There’s a small note, handwritten by Keira Metz: “Use a Sign on it and find out what you would look like without the second round of mutations.”

So it’s an artefact activating an illusion spell, probably so he can leave the Castle unbothered by the crowds outside.

Geralt knows what he’d look like: Yen experimented once, casting a similar spell out of curiosity. He’d have hazel eyes, only slightly darker than his current, yellow ones, and reddish-brown hair. Not a shocking look, certainly less catching an eye than his current one.

“Why?” Roche asks.

“I like him better than you and I need an encrypted phone.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“No, I will, he can find me at the Chameleon,” Geralt argues. He finds a notebook and his cigarette case, both cleaned. “Fuck,” he murmurs in exasperation. He shows them to Roche. “Very meticulous at your job, aren’t you.”

“You know how it is,” Roche shrugs.

“I’m done with you,” Geralt shakes his head, turns around and goes to the door.

Roche runs from behind his desk and blocks the door.

“Geralt, no, we need to talk.”

“I don’t want to look at your fucking face for a second longer.”

“We were doing our jobs, Geralt,” Roche says through his teeth. They’re the same height, so they’re standing nose to nose now.

“So was I,” Geralt snaps and tries to walk around him, but Roche blocks him again. Geralt is very tempted to hit him in the face. “Do you want to know what my problem with you is right now, Roche? You were so happy to announce you’re taking over my investigation at the Castle, and then you couldn’t be arsed to talk to me after the assassination. It should have been you who came in to take my statement, not Gielas. Then you left me in that cell for two days without any info. You didn’t want to listen to me, I won’t listen to you now.”

Roche stares at him.

“You realise that’s petty.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“I honestly don’t care what you think, not anymore. I even think I know why you didn’t come: you thought I would notice you believed I’d killed the King.”

Roche purses his lips and breaks the eye contact, which pisses Geralt off even more.

“I’ve lived in this city for sixteen years, I owe everything I have here to the King and his Edict: my job, my flat, even the ability to adopt a human child. And you know that, and you still believed I killed him.”

“The evidence—” Roche starts.

“There’s something like ‘innocent until proven guilty’, heard about it? And it’s bullshit, not evidence. I’m sure you got the first reports suggesting it wasn’t me only hours after the assassination, but you waited two days for an eye witness you had no idea you’d get. I should have been released long before then, thanks to your colleague. I could burn your career to the ground, you asshole, and even the Attorney General would applaud.”

At this, Roche steps away from the door and Geralt storms out, Roche walking behind him.

“By the way, take a look at Gielas’ cases, if he could be affiliated with Roggeveen in any way,” Geralt says, walking the Castle’s corridors. “Any weird failures, undocumented contacts.”

“I highly doubt he works for Roggeveen,” Roche protests. “The assault on you was weird, but not exactly out of his character.”

“The righteous fury? Damn asshole.”

Roche huffs.

Geralt stops in his tracks, Roche barely avoids walking into him.

“Everybody knows I’ll go after Roggeveen,” Geralt says as he turns back to Roche.

“Because we know you’ll find him,” Roche says softly. “You found him once. That’s what you do best, and we’ll help you, just like the first time.”

Geralt almost rolls his eyes again at this very awkward attempt at sucking up to him.

He also realises he starts to feel uneasy about this whole situation. Olgierd von Everec, the Royals, the Redanian Secret Service and probably Princess Anaïs all know he’s going to go into the hunter mode, now that Roggeveen threatened the stability of the country Geralt considered his, put him in huge trouble and made this whole mess personal between the two of them.

Do they know him so well or is it just something they expect? Maybe it’s an easy solution for them, use their faithful hound to find and get rid of a dangerous criminal. Geralt is controllable. Geralt cares about his comfortable life in Vizima, so he’ll do everything to protect it.

They’re right, of course. He’ll do exactly what they expect him to do, but not because of their expectations, but because that’s who he is. He’s a hunter: pissed off to his core, so a determined one. Hard to kill and used to solving impossible cases.

“I won’t promise I’ll bring him back alive,” he murmurs and glances down.

Roche quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Won’t or can’t?” he asks.

“I know what I said,” Geralt drawls as he looks back at Roche. “Have a nice flight back to Gors Velen.”

“Geralt,” Roche almost whines, exasperated, “try to not burn every bridge; and I agree with von Everec, with his ‘stay alive and see this to the end’.”

“You’re such a friend,” Geralt sneers and walks on.

“What do you want me to do, Geralt? Beg you for forgiveness?” Roche calls after him.

“Do your job and leave me alone,” Geralt seethes, more to himself, as he walks through the empty corridors of the Castle, straight to the exit.

* * *

It takes Cahir two hours to find the little aircraft, standing in the middle of a meadow, the engine cover raised, the door to the cockpit open and no pilot in sight. It doesn’t look damaged, so the emergency landing with no engine was soft.

There are no trees or bushes around, but the grass is tall and quite easy to hide in. He doesn’t want to hide, though. He’s tired and he hopes to get the pilot’s cooperation, he has no intentions to hurt or kill anyone else today. Even Asper was an accident; the other man has, theoretically, a chance of survival.

“Hello?” he calls towards the aircraft when he’s about fifty metres from it.

There’s a swish of air and a stone hits his shoulder from the back.

“Ow!” he yelps and turns, only to get hit in the chest. The stones are small and smooth, so they don’t injure him, but the hits are painful.

The grass moves about thirty metres in front of him. Another stone flies and he manages to duck before it hits his head this time.

“Nice aim, but I’m not here to hurt you!” he calls and falls into the grass to avoid more projectiles.

“Wait ‘till I get my bow out,” a female voice calls back.

“No need for me!” he replies and rolls to the side avoiding another stone: even with both of them hidden in the grass, the woman can throw stones at him. He suspects she has a slingshot: if she can aim it so well, with a bow she’s probably a silent death walking.

“Listen, I saw what’s happened to your aircraft,” he says, listening to her movements. She slips through the grass towards the aircraft, hunched low and practically invisible. She’s not throwing stones at him for now. “I’ve heard about this place, what it does to technology. The damage is caused by magic, but it’s always physical. I reckon you need someone to hold a wrench to a valve while you start the engine. That’s why you haven’t fixed it by now.”

There’s a pause, then, her voice says from somewhere around the aircraft:

“So what?”

“I can help you fix it. We both need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

“And then what?” she asks after another short pause.

“Can you take me to a large city?”

He needs to get back to Vizima but asking the woman to take him that far would be stretching it, at least now.

“What am I, a taxi?” she snorts.

“Do you want to get out of here or not?”

“I’m sure I can fix it myself, it’ll just take more time.”

Cahir sighs.

“Please.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, then she sighs, too.

“Stand up,” she orders.

Cahir raises his hands above the grass, then stands.

The woman he’s seen piloting the aircraft is standing by it, the slingshot in her hand, prepared with a stone. She’s slightly younger than him; she keeps her hair in a braid at the back of her head. She’s dressed in simple trousers and a shirt, both grey and green coloured.

 _No wonder I couldn’t see her in the grass,_ Cahir thinks.

“What are you doing here?” she asks sharply.

“Looking for the Kingslayers, I got into trouble, got driven here, got out, saw your aircraft falling,” he says.

She rolls her eyes.

“We didn’t fall, that was a perfectly executed emergency landing,” she protests, still keeping the slingshot at the ready.

“You’ve heard about Vilgefortz Roggeveen, that rogue sorcerer?” he asks. She nods in reply, her lips pursed. “I’m looking for him, he was involved in King Foltest’s death. I know some people in Vizima who can help me find him, and I can help them. Could you just take me away from here, to, I don’t know, Dillingen for example? I’ll get to Vizima on my own.”

It will be hard with the closed borders, as Dillingen is in Brugge, which is a separate country to Temeria. The woman has flown from the west, though, so he hopes that not asking her to make a detour on her way back will keep him in her good graces.

“What people?” she asks, ignoring his suggestion. “Who exactly, give me names.”

“Uh, mostly a witcher slash police detective, Geralt Haute? He’s leading the case against—”

“Tall, broody and has white hair?” she cuts in.

Cahir laughs.

“That’s him. So, one favour for another?” he asks, pointing at the aircraft.

She lowers the slingshot and puts the stone in her pocket.

“I’ll have to fly by Burnt Stump first, to drop something off,” she says. “Then I’ll take you to Vizima.”

Cahir lowers his arms and relaxes.

“Thank you. My name’s Cahir. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach.”

“That’s a mouthful…” she murmurs. “I’m Maria Barring. Milva. Alright, if you want to fly, Nilfgaardian, make good of your suggestion,” she says, smiles, takes a wrench that has lied on the engine and holds it in a hand outstretched towards him.

Cahir rolls his eyes and steps forward to take the wrench.

“I’m not Nilfgaardian.”

* * *

Rience’s image in the megascope is distorted, but that’s understandable considering the aura around Vidort. Rience looks irritated: living in a swamp doesn’t go well with him, but the Circle of Elements in the former druid forest is the only place he can send his messages to Vilgefortz from, as the aura of that place manages to hide the magical activity. Both Rience and Vilgefortz use magic on well-known frequencies, so they have to be careful to not be detected. The shield around Vidort is much stronger than the interference of the Circle, so Vilgefortz is much safer than Rience. Another Circle of Elements in the Vizima area is in an old crypt in the Outskirts, which is much drier, but the place is more populated and harder to hide in than the forests around Vizima Lake.

“We’ve done our bit, now what?” Rience asks.

“Now you follow Haute and make it hard for him to gain support, but don’t touch him,” Vilgefortz orders.

“What about the Princess?”

“I don’t give a shit about the Princess,” Vilgefortz snarls. “It was never about the King of Temeria, it was about Geralt Haute. I also promised someone his soul. I need him to find me, and I need him to stay alive until he does. Do you understand me?”

“What about we catch him and deliver him to you?”

“If you’re one-hundred-and-ten per cent sure you can deliver him to me alive, then feel free. Just don’t forget who he is.”

“I think we can handle him.”

“Don’t think too much, it’s never been your strong suit,” Vilgefortz snorts and ends the transmission with a gesture. “What an idiot,” he murmurs. “They’ve blown up Haute’s flat and he’s alive, but still they think they can handle him.”

“There are always my men,” Straggen says, nibbling on pieces of apples lying on the table.

Vilgefortz waves him off.

“We will use them when we need to.”

“I was about to suggest going over the border now that the King’s dead and Haute will be very determined to get to you, but I hear that’s exactly what you want.”

“We’re not leaving.”

“Can’t you set O’Dimm on him?”

Vilgefortz purses his lips.

“No. O’Dimm’s side of our contract is done, if I ask him for something like this… no. There will be no negotiations. And I believe in Detective Haute’s abilities, he’ll find us.”

“While we’re on the topic of finding people, are you sure the girl can’t escape the castle?”

Vilgefortz snorts.

“One little girl eluded you and your men? You get what you deserve, then. And no, she’s bound to the place of Power here, there’s nothing I’m more sure of than my magic. She can’t leave as long as the shield here is active.”

“Fine. So, we’re staying here, waiting for the pissed off, over-mutated witcher to come and try to kill you. Can I bring my men here, at least? I try to not underestimate him, unlike your fiery minion in Vizima.”

“As long as you’re sure they won’t talk.”

“I’m about as sure about them as you are about your magic.”

Vilgefortz nods and dismisses him with a gesture.

“Now we wait,” he whispers, his emerald eyes glinting in the light of the candles on the table.

* * *

Geralt manages to walk around the crowd outside the gate to his bike, still parked where he left it two days ago; Keira’s gift works perfectly, as nobody pays any attention to his brown-haired, slightly hunched figure, dressed in nondescript dark clothes, wearing a backpack. He doesn’t linger, he doesn’t read the banners carried by the chanting crowd.

They want his head. Keira will have to work hard to make them leave him alone.

Geralt’s tired, he’s long overdue to take the meds from Aglaïs, he misses his friends and Regis, but he still has a lot of people to talk to before he can rest.

He rides straight to the police station. Geralt would love to use a back door to get inside, but he doesn’t know this building well enough to try to sneak around. He parks Roach in the parking lot, takes off his helmet and leaves it on the saddle. He jogs through the main door and up the stairs to the floor used by the Homicide Dept, trying to not notice the stares he gets on the way. Quite a few conversations stop when he marches across the floor to Eskel’s office, but he doesn’t comment on that. He knocks on the door and walks in, without waiting for permission.

They are waiting for him: Eskel, Triss and, to his surprise, Philippa Eilhart. Eskel walks from behind his desk and engulfs Geralt in a bear hug, which is readily returned. When they separate, Eskel points Geralt a chair right opposite his own. Triss and Philippa sit on the chairs on both Geralt’s sides.

“Okay, time to sum up the situation,” Eskel begins, looking into his notes, written on paper. “Geralt isn’t accused of anything, he’s considered a witness to the King’s assassination, therefore he can’t lead the investigation, but he can be a part of it. It’s taken over by Detective Triss Merigold. We have compiled all information from all investigations regarding Vilgefortz Roggeveen, with the help of the Redanian Secret Service agent, Philippa Eilhart.”

Geralt starts to wonder whether this meeting is recorded, but then he realises it’s probably Eskel’s way to have everything organised and covered.

“We’re looking into old assets of Roggeveen, including some police officers with a shady case history,” Eskel continues. “We’re also including the sorcerer Rience and mercenaries Shirrú and Leo Bonhart in the cross-checks. The attempts to look into Cahir aep Ceallach turned blank.”

“He’s protected, although we can’t tell his current affiliation with the Nilfgaardian Intelligence,” Philippa says. “And he’s vanished from Vizima.”

“I’d leave aep Ceallach alone for now,” Geralt murmurs. “I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later, then we’ll talk to him about his role in the whole scheme.”

“We need to work closely together on that, Sigismund Dijkstra and I would appreciate it if we were still involved,” Philippa says.

“Can’t see why not, the Attorney General gave us the green light,” Eskel shrugs. “We need to divide the workload, though.”

“I have some people I can still talk to,” Geralt says, thinking of the dopplers and their possible information about the Castle guards. “As for dividing the workload, well.” He shrugs.

“You’re going on unpaid vacation to work on this on your own,” Triss guesses, looking at her hands, her fingers interlocked on her lap.

Eskel sighs; Philippa frowns, confused.

“What?” she asks.

“That’s what he does,” Eskel says. “Covering my ass while completely ignoring the law.”

“Not completely,” Geralt argues, “I don’t plan to become a criminal.”

“You just realise that some things you’re going to do will probably risk my reputation, as your boss.”

“You’re going to be the loose cannon then,” Philippa says, looking at Geralt. He just quirks an eyebrow at her. “This will make this case your last one, you realise that?”

“Kettle, meet pot,” Geralt says, looking straight into her eyes. He remembers their meeting in Gors Velen. “Me taking it personally was Roggeveen’s goal anyway, he’s going to get what he wants, just this once.”

“Shit,” Philippa murmurs and leans back in her chair. “You’re really the faithful hound, aren’t you. You caught a scent, got pissed off and won’t let go now.”

“Are you really that surprised?”

“Are you really okay with this situation?”

“Do you really care?”

Philippa purses her lips and doesn’t reply.

“Anyway,” Geralt says with a knowing smile. “I’ll start with the Castle guards, I think you should focus on Roggeveen’s insiders in the police. How sure are we that Roggeveen is still in southern Temeria?”

“About eighty per cent. The borders are closed, he didn’t teleport,” Philippa replies.

“He’s waiting for me,” Geralt murmurs.

“And he’ll lead you straight to him.”

Eskel uses some keyboard shortcuts and soon passes Geralt a flash drive.

“Everything we’ve got so far, with some clues leading south,” he says. “Keira said you can keep her pendant. Also, you’re going to need this.” He reaches to his desk drawer and passes Geralt a gun in a waist belt holster and three clips.

“Not mine,” Geralt notices.

“The Royals kept it. This one is registered to you, too.”

Geralt takes the gun.

“Good luck, to all of us,” Eskel says and the meeting is over.

Geralt drags his feet on his way outside: he had no idea before how exhausting spending two days in a fairly comfortable cell could be. Meditating isn’t good for his back, either; he misses a proper bed, but he can’t take a nap, not now.

Laptop. He should get a laptop to access the data he got from Eskel.

That train of thought is interrupted by a sight for sore eyes: Regis is leaning against the wall by the spot Roach is parked on, arms crossed on his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. He’s dressed in charcoal suit trousers, dark green, patterned button-down shirt with no tie, and leather shoes, which is almost a casual look for him.

Geralt didn’t expect him here and it forces him to remember there are other aspects of his life than a rogue sorcerer and a dead king.

He hasn’t spoken to Regis for over two days.

It takes a great deal of restraint for him to not run up to Regis and kiss the living daylights out of him.

He definitely doesn’t run, but he’s smiling so widely his face starts to hurt.

They hug. If there are some kisses exchanged, well, that’s nobody’s business.

“Come home with me, I have the rest of the day off,” Regis murmurs when they break the hug.

“I’ve got work to do,” Geralt protests and it sounds weak. Getting straight into the case is the last thing he wants to do, but the longer the delay, the bigger chance all his potential witnesses and suspects will disappear before he gets to them.

“That’s why you need to come with me. I can feel your anger. Roggeveen wants to destroy you, and if you don’t stop at some point, if you let your anger take over, sooner or later you’ll do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life and let him win.” Regis pauses, then smiles with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and adds: “Also, you need a hair trim and a shave.”

Geralt snorts then looks into Regis’ black eyes and smiles with one corner of his mouth.

“The epitome of humanity,” he says. “So now a witcher needs a vampire to remind him to stay human.”

Regis smiles back.

“I promise I’ll help you if you allow me to stop you from time to time.”

“What? You want to be a part of my case?”

“You know I can be useful,” Regis shrugs nonchalantly.

“Yeah,” Geralt nods. He’s already allowed to make a mess. Eskel, Triss, Philippa and Olgierd probably don’t expect anyone to end up in court, so Regis helping him wouldn’t compromise the case any more than it already is. And he could make use of the vampire’s keen eye for detail and other interesting abilities. It would be the first time they would work on Geralt’s case together. Regis helped him a few months ago with a vampire hunt, but he was only a source of information, he wasn’t involved directly in the investigation and the fight that ended the vampire threat and led to them finding out about Roggeveen’s illegal activities.

“Come home then, with me,” Regis says and Geralt nods again.

* * *

It takes longer than Milva and Cahir expected to fix the engine, but the flight to Burnt Stump afterwards is uneventful. When they land about a hundred metres from the treeline, Milva orders Cahir to stay by the aircraft before she disappears among the trees. Cahir, too shocked to try to stop her, does what he’s told and doesn’t move from the passenger seat: he’s heard enough about Brokilon to know not to wander about, especially here; the dryads still consider Burnt Stump a part of their forest and they tend to protect it quite fiercely.

He didn’t ask Milva what she was going to do when they reached Burnt Stump, so now he’s left only with speculations. Milva isn’t a dryad, but she’s definitely familiar with Brokilon. If she wasn’t, she probably wouldn’t come here or, if she did, she would be now lying dead. She speaks with a slightly heavy Temerian accent, suggesting she’s from the south of the country; from all he knows about the dryads, their speech pattern is unique and easily recognisable, so Milva’s isn’t that.

Cahir’s headache, a souvenir from his meeting with Asper and his minion, has thankfully worn off while they were still fixing the engine, but the lump at the back of his head is still painful. He forces himself not to touch it or even think about it as he waits for Milva to return.

It’s quiet, only birds are singing softly in the trees, there’s some rustling of leaves and cracking of branches. Since the wind doesn’t blow, not even a slight breeze, Cahir doesn’t want to know what creatures make those sounds. Dryads are supposed to be completely silent and he curses his upbringing for feeding him scary stories about the forest people. He’s well over thirty years old and his mind still plays this sort of tricks on him.

Milva returns after two hours; it’s evening already, the sun is about to set. She has a stuffed bag with her, which she drops on one of the seats in the back of the aircraft.

“I hate flying at night, so we’ll sleep here,” she says. She unzips the bag and takes out fluffy blankets, some fruit, and glass containers full of food. It’s still warm; when she offers one container to Cahir, he can’t believe his luck: he’s starving and realising it only now. They don’t have any utensils, but the food is good to be eaten by hand: strips of vegetables and pieces of fish, cooked and seasoned. Cahir groans with pleasure after the first bite.

Milva smiles at him, climbs onto the pilot seat and starts to eat from her container.

They eat in silence for a while, watching the sun disappear beyond the trees.

“You said you’re not Nilfgaardian. Where are you from, then?” Milva asks when they’re finished and they settle on the grass by the aircraft to stretch their legs. They haven’t talked during the flight, it was too loud and they both had their things to think over then.

“Vicovaro,” Cahir replies.

Milva frowns.

“That’s in Nilfgaard.”

Cahir almost snorts. He’s had this conversation with almost every Northerner he’s talked with for more than five minutes.

“Nilfgaardian Empire,” he corrects mildly. “Only people living in the literal city of Nilfgaard and the province around it can call themselves Nilfgaardians.”

Milva hums.

“Have you ever been? To Nilfgaard?” she asks.

“I haven’t. My father has, though. He said it’s the largest city on the Continent. It’s called the City of the Golden Towers; I can only imagine what it looks like.”

Milva only hums and doesn’t offer any personal information in return.

They lay down and take their time to admire the colours of the evening sky, full of reds and pinks, with clouds like cotton wool scattered over them, reflecting the sun, with some sparks dancing on them, looking nothing like he’s ever seen. Those must be reflections, too, but he has no idea of what: they flow like water, but they’re so bright the water must be shining on its own. It looks like magic, and soon he feels like he’s flying among those clouds; he feels lightheaded and he grabs the grass by reflex, afraid he’ll fall. Once he’s sure he’s safe, he allows his mind to wander and fly, listen to the birdsong, watch the sparks and flowing colours until the sky is dark. Even then, the white reflections are visible and their dance is soothing. He allows himself to let go of all worries from the last few weeks he spent working with Rience. He doesn’t think of the future. He just stares at the lights and feels at peace for the first time in years.

When he glances at Milva, she's staring at the clouds too but doesn't offer any suggestion of what the reflections might be.

It’s getting cold, so they settle inside the cockpit: Milva on the front seats, Cahir in the back. They close the cabin’s door and wrap themselves in the blankets.

“You have a home here,” Cahir says after a short while of silence, quietly to not startle Milva.

“How do you know?”

“You are safe here.”

“Geralt Haute is safe here, too, and he definitely doesn’t have a home here.”

He wonders why she brought up Geralt. He realises he has no idea how these two met, but apparently it happened here.

_Is this where Geralt disappeared to after the bombings? Brokilon?_

“Would he be able to walk into the forest as confidently as you did earlier?” Cahir asks.

“Your point?”

“Why are you staying with me here even though I’m sure you have a home somewhere deeper in the forest?”

“I’m not taking you there,” Milva snaps without heat.

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just curious why you are helping me? I asked you to take me to a large city wherever, you don’t have to take me all the way to Vizima.”

“I want to. Did that occur to you?”

“But why?”

Milva sits up on the seats and looks at him over the backrests.

“You’re going to help Geralt find and stop Roggeveen, right? There’s this criminal group led by a man named Straggen,” she starts. “They became pretty active around here after Roggeveen escaped. I know they’re connected.”

Cahir doesn’t nod. He stares at her.

“The thing is, they’ve killed four dryads since they’ve shown up here, two of which I knew very well,” Milva continues. “That’s one reason. The second reason, the magic I was detecting right before my engine failed is different from anything I’ve seen, it’s dangerous, it’s dark and it started to change around the time of Roggeveen’s escape. The third reason, well. King Foltest was the first monarch who acknowledged the dryads’ independence, he was willing to protect Brokilon and he was killed by the people you and Geralt are looking for. Also, I’m from Sodden, so technically I was his subject. Call me a patriot. So, I’m helping you, because I want to take part in your efforts to stop these bastards. Okay?”

“Okay,” Cahir nods this time.

“Get some sleep, we’re flying out before dawn,” Milva says as she lays back down on the seats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: the part that starts with “The call comes late in the evening, just as Triss Merigold, drained after the whole day of work, is about to leave the station and go home.” mentions double suicide. You can skip this piece to the next “* * *”.
> 
> (I have no idea whether you can hold a wrench to a valve of a Cessna-like aircraft's engine. I was too lazy to research this.)
> 
> Comments feed the writer. The writer is hungry and sad, looking at you with big eyes and patting you with her paw, begging for attention.  
> ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The faithful hound...

Geralt and Regis spend the entire afternoon at Regis’ flat. Geralt is finally able to take his meds and it doesn’t take long before the pain in his back subsides and the full feeling returns to his limbs. He has his laptop at the flat and uses it to access the data he was given to start to sort it out, creating a plan of action for the next few days. Regis tries to distract him, Geralt indulges him and then gets back to work before Regis finally drags him away from the screen to go to the Chameleon to meet their friends.

The streets are still crowded, but not as much as during daytime. They’re far enough from the Castle to avoid the crowds of protesters and nobody pays them any attention. Regis looks generic enough and Geralt wears a hoodie, with the hood drawn on his head to hide his white hair. He shaved earlier, so there’s no white stubble to give him away.

The walk is short, taking them past the rubble of the old police station. As they pass it, Geralt feels the hair in the back of his neck stand up on end.

He stops.

Regis looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Do you feel it?” Geralt asks.

Regis frowns, looks around and shakes his head.

Geralt focuses his senses, searching for anything unusual, including a spectre or a vampire, but then the uneasy feeling goes away.

“Damn it,” he murmurs.

“What was it?” Regis asks quietly.

“I have no idea,” Geralt admits. “It’s like someone was scanning me. Weird.”

“Magic?”

“Yeah. Subtle.”

Regis puts his arm around Geralt’s back in an unmistakably protective manner and they continue walking across the former parking lot, then cross the gate, then a road, and then there’s the Chameleon. Geralt doesn’t take the hood off his head when he walks to a lounge near the kitchen door, their favourite discreet spot, with the table and the couch in a U-shape around it. Dandelion is busy in the main hall, but he waves at them when they pass the counter. Ilona, the head bartender, nods at them, acknowledging their arrival. They can expect their usual drinks being put on their table pretty soon.

Chappelle is already at the lounge as a human man, with Zoltan Chivay and a dwarf woman Geralt doesn’t recognise. She’s about Zoltan’s height, with brown hair and blue eyes, and her face is round with a short, braided beard. She wears a simple, green dress with a yellow apron on top of it, but no jewellery. _She’s pretty,_ Geralt thinks. Not his type, definitely, but she probably catches the eye of people with proper inclinations. At first Geralt suspects it’s Eudora, the lady of Zoltan’s heart, but he changes his mind as his friends only smirk at him as he stands by the table and stares at the woman.

Finally, it clicks and he can’t help but laugh as he sits at the table, close to the exit, with only Regis blocking his way out to his right. On his left, he has the dwarf woman, Zoltan and Chappelle.

“Too bad I missed Zoltan seeing you for the first time in this form,” he says to the woman.

“He was delighted,” female-dwarf-presenting Dudu says and Zoltan laughs.

Geralt exchanges handshakes with everyone present and then breathes deeply, relieved to be out of the Castle, greeted by his friends.

“I’m so glad they let you go, we were so worried,” Dudu says.

“If you accepted the help from Countess Kameny, we probably would feel better,” Regis adds.

“Didn’t need it,” Geralt waves his hand dismissively. “By the way, does anyone have any idea why she’s so helpful to me?”

He notices Regis pursing his lips and looking down.

“What?” he asks him.

“Nothing. I met her while you were still in Brokilon. She’s a fascinating and kind person.”

“Is she a higher vampire or something?”

Regis looks him into his eyes and doesn’t reply.

“Explains a lot,” Geralt murmurs and turns back to the dopplers when Dudu says:

“I saw the assassination, I wanted to testify, but Roche sent me away, talking about compromising the case.”

“Let’s not speak about Roche, I want to have a nice evening. By the way, thanks for doing exactly what I told you to,” Geralt replies with a crooked smile.

“As usual,” Dudu smiles back.

“I left the Castle the day you ordered us to,” Chappelle cuts in. “Dudu insisted on staying until you talked to the Princess.”

Geralt sighs.

“I can’t be angry at you,” he admits.

"Not to mention, we tried to be useful," Chappelle says and motions at Dudu. The other doppler passes Geralt a flash drive, taken from a pocket of their apron.

“The guards were into it,” Dudu says quietly, careful to not be overheard. “They allowed it to happen. Just some of them, maybe four, plus the person responsible for setting up the shifts.”

Geralt takes the flash drive, stares at it and then slowly puts it in his jacket pocket.

“So, what are we doing here? Mourning our late monarch?” Geralt asks and gets a collective eye-roll in return.

“Unwinding among friends to not brood alone at home,” Regis replies, then stands to help the waitress set their drinks on the table.

“Making sure everyone is alright,” Zoltan says softly and it takes a second for Geralt to fully realise what he means.

Two of the people sitting at this table witnessed a brutal murder two days ago, one of which was almost accused of said murder. The rest were helpless, worrying mainly about him again only two days after he returned to Vizima from Brokilon.

They all need this: to sit together at a table with a drink and snacks, feel each other’s presence, laugh and talk.

Regis stands up again and before Geralt can ask where he’s going, he has his arms full of Dandelion. Geralt hugs him back.

“Don’t do that to me ever again,” his oldest friend murmurs into his shirt.

“Can’t promise anything, but I’ll try,” Geralt replies and pats Dandelion’s back.

Everyone moves a little to make room for Dandelion, pushing Geralt deeper into the lounge, with Dandelion now on Geralt's right and Regis sitting at the end of the couch. Geralt's more in shadow now, but he has to force himself into not thinking about escape routes. The Chameleon is one of the safest places for him, and not only because of his current company. Dandelion doesn't tolerate fights in the inn for any reason and Zoltan is more than happy to enforce the peace, usually throwing out people who don't like the fact that non-humans and queer people can be open about who they are here. Such enforcing has happened more than once. Geralt is more than capable of defending himself, but he also doesn't want to draw attention to himself and be the cause of the trouble.

Geralt leans back and can’t help but smile.

“Good to see your ugly mugs outside of work,” he says.

Everyone laughs.

The band on stage starts playing some calm music. Geralt notices only now that there's an old shield with Temerian lilies hanging on a wall above the counter, crossed with black ribbon. The patrons are quieter than usual, there's less laughter, fewer games. Geralt knows that there are no plans for special events in the city, only the Castle heralded national mourning; the King's funeral is planned in three days. The country is ruled by the regency council for now, although Princess Anaïs started to show up publicly earlier in the day.

One of the patrons starts singing some patriotic songs, soon he’s joined by the majority of the crowd.

Dandelion explains that it happens every evening. It’s spontaneous, nobody has protested yet. The King of Temeria had his opponents, not everyone agreed with his policies. This singing crowd in a small inn shows nothing but respect for the fallen monarch, mourning him in their own way.

The singing lasts half an hour, then the band takes over again. Zoltan, Regis and Geralt order another round of drinks.

“Geralt.”

The witcher looks up from the table and sees Thaler. The spy throws a small plastic box with a cord at Geralt; he catches it.

“Your encryption module,” Thaler explains, drags a chair from a nearby table and sits with his elbows on the table. “Plug that to your phone and install the application that will pop up. It will encrypt every call and message.”

“Thanks,” Geralt replies and pockets the module.

“Princess Anaïs asked me to stay in Vizima and play liaison between Roche, the police and the Redanian Secret Service,” Thaler reveals. “Ves is staying, too. Roche has packed his bags already.”

Geralt only purses his lips at the mention of Roche.

Thaler leans over the table.

“The Princess asked me to pass you an important message. Since we’re in a trustworthy company, I’m not going to do all this ‘can we talk somewhere private’ thing.”

Geralt quirks an eyebrow at him.

“She said, quote-unquote, ‘whatever you plan to do to find the people responsible for my father’s death, however you’ll deal with them, you won’t be abandoned’,” Thaler whispers. “You have her permission to dispose of them, whatever means necessary. If it ends up being illegal, you will be officially pardoned if necessary.”

Geralt and his friends don’t react, frozen in shock.

“I bet she wanted to write it down and you barely managed to talk her out of it,” Geralt says after a few seconds, forcibly calm.

“Yeah.”

Such declarations are very dangerous from a person in power. They’re the most dangerous _for_ the person in power, as such assent for potentially criminal activity would fuel their opponents. Anaïs' position on the throne is not cemented: all it takes to throw her from it are suspicions she's mentally unfit to carry the crown.

It also doesn't make Geralt feel better about his plans regarding Roggeveen. Sure, they're fairly simple: find all his minions directly involved in his escape, the bombings and the King's assassination, then find him and kill him.

The Princess’ declaration only proves his role in the whole scheme now: he really is the loyal hound, sent on a hunt.

Sixteen years of working in the police and living in one city were enough for him to forget the feeling. It’s just a contract now, a contract on a monster. Sixteen years ago he’d refuse to hunt a man; today everyone expects him to do it, and he will.

“Pass my thanks to her,” he murmurs and Thaler nods, leaning back in his seat.

They don’t talk much afterwards. Thaler shares a drink with them and leaves half an hour later. They stay in their lounge until midnight, with Geralt and Regis holding hands behind Dandelion’s back on the backrest.

* * *

Right before Milva’s aircraft takes off to Vizima, Cahir sends Geralt an email with a photo of the plane’s partial designation number and ‘8’ added under. Cahir can only hope Geralt will figure out what it means. He knows Geralt knows Milva; the question is: how well do they know each other? Well enough for Geralt to figure out that they’ll be at 8 in the morning at the Murky Waters airstrip? If not, then Cahir will have to find Geralt in Vizima and reach out to him some other way.

They land in Murky Waters without incident and delay. While Milva circles to a parking spot by the hangars, Cahir notices a dark blue motorbike with the driver dressed in black, with the helmet on and visor down, hidden in the shadow of one of the buildings. When they exit the aircraft, the driver takes off their helmet and Cahir immediately recognises Geralt’s white hair, even though it's only four centimetres long with an undercut: not in the ponytail Cahir remembers from their first meeting nine years ago. Cahir points the driver to Milva, who nods, quickly talks to the mechanic and then follows Cahir. Meanwhile, Geralt puts his helmet on the seat and goes to stand by the hangar’s wall, still hidden in the shadows; his posture is loose, his face neutral. He’s watching them as they approach, hands in his jacket pockets.

When Cahir is within reach, Geralt grabs his shirt and bangs his back against the wall.

“Hey!” Milva shouts, indignant.

Geralt takes his gun from his belt and jabs the barrel under Cahir’s chin.

“Give me one good reason why shouldn’t I blow your brains out,” he seethes.

Cahir is too shocked to try and defend himself. He’s gasping, his arms hang by his sides. Geralt is only slightly taller, but right now he’s practically towering over Cahir.

“I don’t work for Roggeveen!” Cahir chokes out.

“You were there!” Geralt snaps and pushes the gun barrel deeper into Cahir’s chin. “You were their driver, you were at my flat when Rience tried to kidnap my daughter!”

Cahir feels there’s a high risk he’ll end up with his brain splattered all over the wall. Geralt’s fuming, his pupils are blown wide.

“I’m working on Rience! Half of the world tries to get rid of him, I was working on his weak points!”

“You’re undercover? You don’t seem to have too much support from your employers,” Geralt says and takes his gun away from Cahir’s chin, slightly, so the weapon is there, but it’s not digging into his skin anymore.

“Listen, I fucked up a case a few years ago, I was supposed to deliver a cargo, I lost it. I served time in prison for that, I’ve been trying to redeem myself ever since.” _Losing the cargo_ is a very mild euphemism for failing the protection detail on the son of an important politician involved with the war against organised crime in the Nilfgaardian Empire. Cahir knows Geralt is familiar with the slang, so he doesn’t have to explain. “I wasn’t at your flat when they tried to take Ciri. I couldn’t stop them. I would have tried to protect her, but there wasn’t much I could have done, and I’m sorry.”

“Why are you here?”

“Rience got rid of me, I hope he thinks I’m dead. I have information. I know you’ll be looking for Roggeveen, I can help you.”

Geralt backs away from him and stares at him.

“Why should I believe you?” he asks, quietly.

“If you don’t, you might as well shoot me, because if I don’t deliver Rience or the proof he’s dead…” Cahir shrugs. “This is my last chance. I can’t do it without you, I’m almost out of resources.”

Cahir knows Geralt is aware it was him who has sent him the photos. It’s probably the only reason Geralt didn’t kill him on the spot.

“Roggeveen sent me the finger of a human woman,” Geralt says slowly.

Milva, still standing by them, gasps. Cahir feels like he’s about to puke.

“We didn't snatch someone fitting Ciri's description off the streets and deliver them to him if that's what you're saying. I have no idea where the finger came from,” he says.

Geralt stares at him for a few more seconds.

“If I have even the slightest suspicion you’re working against me, I swear I’ll kill you and it won’t be a quick death,” he says slowly.

Cahir nods.

“I know.”

Geralt slowly turns to Milva.

“And you? Why are you helping him?” he asks.

“He’s the only one of you city dwellers to not complain about flying by my little wings,” Milva shrugs.

Geralt frowns. It’s clear he doesn’t believe her.

“You should get back to Brokilon,” Geralt murmurs.

“And you know I can take care of myself. You’re going to need me and I want to help you.”

“I don’t want to be responsible—”

“Oh, bugger off,” she snaps. “We’re all adults here. I know what I’m getting into and you won’t be able to stop me.”

“Yeah,” Geralt gives her a soft smile. “Fine. Find yourself some transportation to the city and a place to spend the nights, we’ll meet in the Chameleon inn in the Trade Quarter. I have to deal with some things first, so we’ll avoid trouble from the police caused by the fact that you,” he points at Cahir, “are on the wanted list.”

Cahir feels a wave of relief flooding over him. He nods.

* * *

When Olgierd leaves his office for his coffee break, he finds Geralt leaning back on one of the chairs in the waiting area, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, hands laid one on the other on his lap. He looks surprisingly proper with a polite look on his face and his hair trimmed and combed with a parting on the right side of his head, with a few strands falling on his forehead.

The red-headed man sighs.

“I worry every time I see you by my office with that look on your face.”

“What look?” Geralt asks mildly.

Olgierd only motions for Geralt to step into the office. The coffee has to wait.

Geralt takes the chair by the desk and sits in a similar, but slightly less relaxed position than in the waiting area: leaned back with his knees crossed and fingers interlocked on his lap.

“So, how is it going?” Olgierd asks as he sits in his armchair in a position identical to Geralt’s.

“Got a few people to find, listed by both Aubry and my people at the Castle. Will probably have to leave Vizima in a day or two, heading south.”

“And then what? How far are you going to go?”

Geralt frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“We all know that when you find Roggeveen, it won’t go to court,” Olgierd says. “Well, _he_ won’t, but some aspects of the case will. How illegal are you going to get?”

“I’ll probably Axii the shit out of everyone. I don’t plan to run around murdering people.”

Olgierd looks closely at him, trying to read his pale face, now fully emotionless. Geralt’s pupils are round; all this makes him look far less dangerous than he’s capable of being, but there’s a spark of danger in his amber irises.

“Why do you worry about that?” Geralt asks. “Isn’t ‘going illegal’ what everyone expects of me?”

“Don’t make life difficult for yourself if you want to have a stable future in the city,” Olgierd replies.

Geralt purses his lips.

“Too late for that. Roggeveen started to burn my bridges already and I’m only adding the fuel.”

After a couple of seconds of no follow-up and Geralt looking at his hands, Olgierd huffs.

“What,” he snaps.

Geralt looks up again.

“Can you take Cahir aep Ceallach off the wanted list, discreetly?”

Olgierd’s face is impassive.

“Why?” he asks, calmly.

“He’s an asset, he can help me find Roggeveen.”

“He was identified as a member of Rience’s team. He was involved in the bombings.”

“He had his reasons, which he’s willing to reveal once we’re done with Roggeveen.”

Olgierd looks at him for a few long seconds.

“It’s interesting,” he says slowly, “because I got some more subtle suggestions about doing the same, from some influential people from down south. It was very polite. ‘No forcing a political decision, no, sir, that’s entirely up to you, but we’d appreciate’ etc.”

Geralt raises one of his eyebrows.

“How much do you need him? I’d prefer to talk to him first before I make any decisions that could be interpreted as political,” Olgierd continues.

“I can’t have him arrested, not now.”

Olgierd sighs.

“You’re asking a lot of me, Geralt.”

“I know. All I can promise is that when everything’s done, we both will turn ourselves in. You could ask all the questions and get all the answers then. If you could make me a witness, you can do it with Cahir, too.”

“Oh, first name terms?” Olgierd asks, his brows raised. “Do you trust him?”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Trust it too strong a word. He knows I’ll break his neck the moment I start to suspect he’s working against me.”

Olgierd shakes his head in exasperation.

“Fine. But he’s your responsibility.”

“Of course.”

Olgierd sighs at Geralt’s earnest tone and starts typing on his computer.

* * *

Geralt finds Milva, Regis and Cahir sitting in a booth in the Chameleon. Dandelion is there, too, talking amicably with Milva and Regis, and eyeing Cahir from time to time. Dandelion doesn’t know who Cahir is, he’s unaware of the man’s involvement with Rience. Cahir himself is hidden in the darkest corner of the booth, trying not to draw attention to himself, dressed in a dark grey hoodie and dark blue jeans.

Regis has taken a well deserved time off work and decided to spend it helping Geralt with his investigation. Geralt can see the irony in this situation, but he doesn’t protest, because Regis being with him means, well, being with Regis, and his partner provides more brainpower.

Geralt pats Dandelion’s shoulder when he reaches them. The surprised man gives an undignified yelp, then jumps to his feet and hugs Geralt.

“Back to work, eh?” Dandelion asks with a lopsided smile once they break the hug.

“Would you mind if we set up a base of operations in your basement?” Geralt asks.

“You know I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t think we’ll be there long,” Geralt adds.

Dandelion only shrugs.

Geralt leads his little team to the kitchen door, then downstairs, to a room with bare brick walls and dirt floor. Wooden crates are standing by the wall on one side, and by the wall on the other stands an empty cupboard. Geralt pushes it to the side, revealing a hole in the wall. He leads the others through the hole, into a tunnel; about a dozen steps later they reach a chamber in the ancient sewers.

It's not empty: there’s a simple table with two chairs, a very old ragged sofa, covered with a clean quilt, a bookshelf with some papers and notebooks, and from a tiny hole in the ceiling hangs a lightbulb and an extension cable, the latter reaching the floor by the table. There’s a closed bar door on one wall, leading deeper into the sewers. It’s pretty cosy, dry and relatively warm.

Milva settles on one chair by the table, Regis starts to look around the chamber, and Cahir looks unsure what to do with himself.

“Can I sleep here?” he blurts out, staring at the sofa.

“No,” Geralt replies and puts his backpack on the table. He takes out a laptop with the charger and plugs it into the extension cable. He sits on the other chair and plugs in the flash drive.

“My work partner, Triss Merigold, and Eskel, who’s technically my boss but we both refuse to call him that, are looking for dirty cops,” Geralt says as he waits for the system to load. “We have a few other people to check, namely the Castle guards who were supposed to be in the corridor where the King was killed. We also need to take a closer look at the man known under the name of Gaunter O’Dimm.” Geralt types in the password and then opens the files from the flash drive. “O’Dimm is some kind of sorcerer, practicing dark magic. The Aen Saevherne living in the Castle said something about that and I think Regis should go to ask him for details.”

Regis looks at Geralt, his brows raised.

"You're a scholar," Geralt explains, but he's unsure. Regis starts to look even more sceptical. "Your age difference is smaller?" he adds with a lopsided smile, Regis only rolls his eyes. "I've dealt with him before, he's really interested in Ciri, so I'd rather not go ask him for a favour and I really should stay away from the Castle if possible. I'm sure you'll find a way to get some information out of him. He's an Aen Elle elf, known as Avallac'h, his full name is Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha."

“I’d say that’s quite a mouthful, but…” Regis smiles.

“Call the kettle black.”

“Exactly. I’ll do my best with him,” Regis promises with a smile of pursed lips.

"I know you will, while we will check out these people," Geralt says and turns the computer towards Milva and Cahir. On the screen, there's a list: four names with addresses.

“How do you plan to do it?” Cahir asks.

“By staying low. You were an investigator, too, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’ll go with me and Milva—”

“Will not be a guard, thank you very much,” Milva rolls her eyes. “Did it occur to you that I may have some uses, too, other than standing outside?”

“Like what?” Cahir asks and Milva looks like she wants to kick him.

“Just you wait and see.”

Geralt scrutinises her, then nods.

“Fine.”

* * *

As they approach the first address on the list, Geralt can feel Milva’s gaze at the back of his head.

“What?” he asks, making sure he doesn’t sound snappish.

“When you were convincing Regis to go to the Castle…” Milva starts and hesitates. “You said that their age difference is smaller.”

“Yeah, than between me and the elf.”

“So, Regis is older than you.”

“And I’m very old, yes,” Geralt replies with a nod, like talking to a child.

“I guess he’s a non-human.”

“Mhm.”

There’s a pause. Geralt can guess Milva hopes he’ll elaborate, but he’s not going to.

“And his name is about as flamboyant as the elf’s?” Milva doesn’t give up.

“Mhm. ‘Emiel Regis’ are only two first words of it.”

“Cahir aep Ceallach is not my full name, you know,” Cahir cuts in.

“But Regis is not an elf,” Milva ignores Cahir.

“No, he’s not,” Geralt nods again.

They’re at their destination, a townhouse in the cheaper but still fancy part of the Royal Quarter, not far from the Castle. The neighbourhood is cared for, clean and full of greenery, there’s a park nearby. As far as they know, the guard they’re about to visit lives with a girlfriend, they don’t have children.

“You won’t tell me who he is, will you,” Milva says.

“Not without proper coercion and you’re not trying hard enough,” Geralt replies.

A young woman leaves the townhouse with a dog on a leash. Milva smiles politely at her while Geralt and Cahir turn away so the woman won’t see their faces. Geralt has his beanie on and Cahir hides under the hood of his sweatshirt. As they approach the entrance to the townhouse, Milva bends towards a flower bed near the door and picks up some stones.

“Handy,” she replies at Geralt’s questioning look and puts the stones into her pocket.

There’s no janitor by the door, so they go towards the stairs.

“Do you think he keeps incriminating materials in his flat?” Cahir asks Geralt just as they’re about to start climbing the stairs. “There’s a basement.”

Geralt glances at the signed door by the staircase.

“I’ll go with him,” Milva says. “I can handle him if you trust me more than him,” she adds and gives Geralt a toothy smile.

“Yeah, she definitely can handle me,” Cahir agrees.

Geralt waves them off with an eye-roll. He watches them open the basement door and disappear behind it. He climbs the stairs to the second floor and finds the flat their first guard supposedly lives in. He listens for a while and ascertains that there’s no-one in the flat at the moment. He puts on a pair of latex gloves; a quick use of his picklock and he’s inside.

The flat is cosy, typical middle class with no sign of children living here. A living room, a kitchen, one bathroom, one bedroom. A dog bed by the kitchen door, some decorative pillows on the couch, framed photos on the mantelpiece. He quickly realises that the woman they've met downstairs lives here.

He goes to the bedroom. Judging by the different types of mess on the two bedside tables, their “target” sleeps on the left side, so Geralt glances under the bed and quickly finds what he’s looking for: a loose floorboard and a key under it.

He takes the key and glances around the bedroom, into the wardrobe and the drawer of a small desk standing by the window. There’s an old computer on the desk; it’s on, but the screen is locked. Geralt uses his phone to film the flat, including the place he’s found the key. Making sure he doesn’t leave any fingerprints or disturb anything, he leaves the flat after ten minutes and heads straight to the basement.

The spacious basement is divided by metal grating into small cubicles. The cubicles are numbered the same as the flats upstairs, so Geralt finds his helpers pretty quick, in a cubicle adjacent to the wall.

Milva and Cahir have been busy: they managed to find a stash hidden inside the thick wall, behind a large shelf. In the nook dug out in the ground and the brick wall there’s a large chest locked with a padlock.

“Nice work,” Geralt says and shows them the key: it fits the padlock.

Milva beams.

“Told you I can be useful,” she says.

“You found it?”

Milva shrugs, fidgeting with something in her jacket pocket.

Geralt raises an eyebrow. Milva sighs and takes a faintly glowing orb out.

Geralt nods and doesn’t comment. He knows what the orb is and where it came from. It’s an equivalent of his witcher senses combined with his medallion, helpful with finding things you don’t know you’re looking for. In some cases it’s even better than what he can do; he also knows that Milva is the only person who can use it, as it’s bonded to its carrier. The fact that she has it doesn’t make her find any less impressive.

He had a thing like this, a very long time ago. It was broken after a fight with a group of bandits.

There’s a faint smell of rot coming from the chest. Geralt signals to Milva and Cahir to step back, uses the key on the padlock and lifts the lid.

Milva gasps.

Inside the chest, there’s a curled-up body of a guard.

“Killed last night, at the latest,” Geralt murmurs. The body is fairly fresh and he knows that humans wouldn’t be able to smell it for a day or two, maybe even longer, because the basement doesn’t look like people come down here regularly.

Geralt glances at his companions and notices they both went a little pale.

“You two okay?” he asks softly.

Milva swallows audibly, takes a deep breath and nods, some colour returning to her face already; Cahir pulls himself together much faster. Milva, he can understand, but Geralt is surprised by Cahir’s reaction to the body; maybe the man was just startled by the discovery.

Geralt starts to film around the cubicle, keeping his companions out of his shot and focusing his senses to try and find any traces of the killer, then he and Cahir take the chest out of the nook in the wall, with the body still inside.

Behind the chest, there’s an envelope.

Geralt, his hands busy with the phone, asks Milva to put on gloves, pick up the envelope and open it. Inside are papers and a flash drive. Geralt takes photos of the papers as he reads them.

“Correspondence with someone from Mayena, looks like a coordinator,” he says.

“I know Rience had some associates in Mayena, but I couldn’t find them,” Cahir says. “I mean I know where they are, but they weren’t available when I got there.”

“So, we should go to Mayena,” Milva says.

"Not yet," Geralt replies. "We have three more guards to check, and quick; with this one, we were too slow. Damn it, I knew I should've gotten straight to work."

“You wouldn’t have us,” Milva argues with a sweet smile, no longer perturbed by the body in the chest.

“You do realise I do you a larger favour that you do for me?” Geralt asks with a raised eyebrow and Milva huffs. “Go outside, I need to call my colleagues to process the scene and I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

Cahir nods and drags Milva outside.

* * *

Regis reckons that Avallac’h looks very much like an elven sage; especially now, as the elf is sitting cross-legged at the centre of his garden, breathing deeply.

Regis doesn’t know how to draw Avallac’h’s attention to himself, as he isn’t even sure the man isn’t asleep.

“There’s a peculiar aura around you,” Avallac’h says, his back still turned towards Regis. “Something potentially sinister, yet kept in check. Something ancient.”

“Well, compared to your kind I’m just a child,” Regis replies and sits on a stone bench by the wall, to Avallac’h’s side. He doesn’t comment on the “sinister” part. He knows who he is.

“Are you a descendant of those who wandered into this world during the Conjunction?” Avallac’h asks, opens his eyes and stands up gracefully, then turns to Regis.

Regis nods. Something in the way the elf holds himself makes Regis feel small, truly like a child in front of a teacher. He even catches himself sitting up with his back straight.

“What brings you here?” Avallac’h asks, his voice mild.

“My name is Emiel Regis, I wish to ask you about the dark magic you detected at the site of King Foltest’s death.”

Avallac’h purses his lips and looks to the side, at the pretty purple flowers growing by the wall.

"Not only dark but demonic," he says after a moment of silence. "The darkest you can find in this world, rare and dangerous, contaminating, suffocating, unbearable."

“Do you know who might use it?” Regis asks, hiding his surprise he’s gotten so much information so easily. It must be something putting a lot of weight on the elven sage, he wants to let go of it.

“Not a human or an elf. It’s not magic you can harness, draw from some source.”

“You told the agents that a demon was involved in the King’s assassination.”

Avallac'h looks at Regis, his pale, almond-shaped eyes looking ancient: they're the only feature that shows his true age. Regis is old, too, well educated and carrying wisdom surpassing anything a mere human can possess, but this elf has his respect for the aeons that hide behind his calm look.

“Gaunter O’Dimm,” Avallac’h says, his voice quieter than before.

The atmosphere turns slightly sinister, with the air becoming noticeably colder.

Avallac’h takes his staff, until now propped against the wall, and lights the crystal on top, making the temperature rise again.

“I’ve read about him,” the elf continues. “He’s more ancient than the Conjunction, maybe than this world. He’s not behind every evil that happens, he prefers a smaller scale, more mischief than proper evil. He’s still dangerous when crossed; even more so when you want to deal with him.”

“Why would anyone—”

“He grants wishes,” Avallac’h continues. “He does something for you, you have to do something for him. It’s a typical case of desperate people signing a contract with their blood at the crossroads at midnight.”

“And he helps Vilgefortz Roggeveen now.”

“He allegedly said that his involvement in the assassination was the last act of his side of the contract. Before you ask, we have no way of telling what Roggeveen’s side is, but we can guess, considering previous encounters.”

Regis doesn’t ask.

“He’s a demon. He wants souls,” Avallac’h says.

“Desperation, indeed,” Regis murmurs.

“Vilgefortz Roggeveen is a type of person who probably believes he can handle his side of the contract, or he found a way out of it. Whatever it is, dealing with O’Dimm never ends happily. You can’t get rid of him permanently and it’s very easy for him to find another victim.”

Regis nods. He doesn't want to ask more questions, even mentioning O'Dimm makes him feel uneasy.

“Is there anything else you want to know, Emiel Regis?” Avallac’h asks with a knowing smile like he can read Regis’ thoughts.

“I wonder what will be the prize for such an extensive answer.”

“You look like a scholar, someone seeking knowledge. By the subject of your interest, I can tell that you know Geralt Haute and that he sent you because he knows what I would ask of him in return. Let’s just say it’s a sign of goodwill in hopes of future collaboration. I’m also a scholar and I’m curious about a creature so out of his world.”

Regis regards Avallac’h calmly.

“So are you,” he replies, his voice mild. “You have the power to return home, at least.”

“Not anymore.”

They look at each other for a while.

“What does it say about us?” Regis asks. “We’re both stuck here, in the world of humans, but only one of us makes sure they’re regarded as otherworldly.”

“Are you telling me that your species of ancient, immortal creatures, doesn’t see themselves as above humans? That they don’t make sure humans know of their superiority?”

Regis smiles.

“They do. I’ve always been a black sheep among my people.”

“We have more in common than I thought, then.”

Regis stands up and bows.

“Thank you for your help, Aen Saevherne. May your days be peaceful.”

Regis turns and leaves, missing the expression of surprise on Avallac’h’s face. After all, he’s given the Aen Elle elf the typical farewell of his people.

* * *

Regis joins them just as they’re checking the third address in the late afternoon, another townhouse in the Temple Quarter. He finds Geralt and his companions still outside, preparing to enter the townhouse. Geralt acknowledges him with a nod.

“Why are they leaving all this info for us to find?” Cahir asks.

“They want us to find them,” Geralt replies as he looks around, checking for CCTV cameras.

“Why?”

"Roggeveen is focused on me, so he wants me to get to him. Plus, me and dead bodies will work well for conspiracy theories fans. The CCTV coverage is sparse, but still, they can prove I was there where the bodies were found."

“He wants to discredit you?” Milva asks. Geralt leads his little gang inside the townhouse.

“So I have nowhere to go to when this whole thing is over,” Geralt nods. “If I’m still alive at the time, of course.”

Regis purses his lips and puts his hands in his trousers pockets at that.

“You don’t look too worried,” Cahir notices, still focused on Geralt.

“It’s annoying, but not the first time I’d have to relocate because people started to hate me.”

“First time potentially losing a place where you managed to strike your roots so solidly though,” Regis comments.

“I’m a master of moving on, you know that,” Geralt replies with a toothy smile.

Regis doesn’t like the fact that Geralt treats the risk of relocating, or even returning on the Path, so lightly. He knows how important Geralt’s current life situation is for him, how hard he’s worked for it. Letting it go just like that only proves the hidden issues Geralt has, ingrained by sixty years of living on the road.

They’re at the flat’s door.

Geralt puts on latex gloves. He tries the knob: the door is open.

The flat is empty and quiet. Milva is told to stay outside and she doesn’t argue. Geralt and Cahir are checking the flat with their guns out and safeties off while Regis just wanders around, not touching anything, his hands still in his pockets.

There's no smell of a dead body, but soon it becomes obvious that they were expected: Regis calls them to the kitchen and they find a corkboard on the wall with over a dozen photos thumb-tacked to it.

Geralt freezes when he sees the photos.

“Is that Dandelion?” Cahir asks.

Geralt nods.

It’s more than that, though: it’s proof that someone kept Dandelion, the Chameleon and Regis under close surveillance. There are photos of Dandelion, Priscilla and Zoltan, the Chameleon and Regis’ townhouse near St Lebioda’s Hospital were thoroughly photographed from every possible angle. Someone put a question mark over a blurry figure on the photo of Regis’ place. Geralt glances at him, but Regis doesn’t react.

“I need to go to the Chameleon,” Geralt mutters. “Can you finish here?” he asks Cahir and leaves without waiting for the answer.

Cahir and Regis glance at each other with obvious disbelief. It’s surprising that Geralt would trust Cahir already, but apparently talking to Dandelion right now is more important than their issues.

They can hear Milva calling after Geralt as he passes her in the hallway. Cahir takes out his phone and starts to film around the flat.

* * *

Geralt takes a taxi to the Chameleon and makes a phone call to Philippa Eilhart on the way. He barges into the inn and quickly spots Dandelion among the patrons. In the late afternoon, the main floor is busy, there’s always someone who wants to talk to the inn’s owner, but Geralt doesn’t care, grabs Dandelion’s arm and drags him through the “Staff” door by the counter.

“You told me Priscilla went home, right?” Geralt asks when the door closes behind them. The staff room is empty, so they have a little bit of privacy. Geralt still keeps his hand on Dandelion’s arm.

“She went weeks ago. Why? What’s the matter?” Dandelion asks, mildly alarmed.

“Where’s she from?” Geralt asks, ignoring Dandelion’s question. He makes sure he doesn’t squeeze his friend’s arm, but it’s hard.

Dandelion pales a little at the sight of Geralt’s stern face and vertical pupils.

“Kovir, Pont Vanis,” Dandelion replies, his voice shaking a little.

“Great. Buy a plane ticket to Pont Vanis, go there and STAY there until you hear that Roggeveen is dead.”

“Geralt—”

“Take Zoltan with you if you can.”

Dandelion opens his mouth, but Geralt doesn’t let him say anything:

“Dandelion, don’t argue with me, with Ciri who the fuck knows where I can’t lose you, too.”

Dandelion pales even further.

“What is it about?” he asks.

“You’ve been under surveillance, we found your photos in the flat of one of the guards from the Castle. It’s very likely you’ll become a target when the situation gets hotter.”

Dandelion swallows audibly.

“How do I cross the border? I’d have to go to Oxenfurt—”

“I’ve talked to Philippa Eilhart, she’ll help you, as the fellow Redanian. Don’t let Dijkstra talk you out of it, he’ll most certainly try.”

“What about Regis? You’re not sending him away.”

“He’s the most stubborn bastard of our lot so I don’t even try, and a fucking immortal.”

There’s a knock on the door. Geralt lets go of Dandelion as Philippa Eilhart enters the room. Despite her usually cold demeanour, now she looks worried. There’s no smirk on her face, no air of exasperation.

“I can procure plane tickets for tomorrow morning,” she says without preamble. “I’ll stay in the inn before that to keep an eye out.”

Dandelion looks between Geralt and Philippa, purses his lips and nods.

“Great,” Geralt sighs.

* * *

They fly to Mayena the next day. Geralt isn’t happy about the delay, but he has to sort things out with Triss and Milva is very stubborn about not flying at night, making Geralt suspect she doesn’t have the pilot’s licence. Geralt doesn’t want to bring it up: she’s skilled enough, so what if she’s self-taught. She can handle landing in a cave or without an engine, he can bear her night-flight fear.

It just makes him hate flying even more.

He and Regis use the time to pack for the journey and spend a quiet evening together. They’re used to travel light, so it’s two changes of clothes for both of them and some weapons and herbs for Geralt, then it’s just unwinding.

They spend the night in their base of operations under the Chameleon, Milva, Cahir and Regis sleeping on foldable cots, and Geralt meditating. To enter the chamber, they use the sewers entrance, only Regis goes upstairs and brings them food, courtesy of Dandelion, who is also busy packing.

They sneak out of the sewers before sunrise and use Regis’ car to get to Murky Waters, where Milva’s aircraft has already been fueled and prepared on the airstrip.

Geralt sits in the front passenger seat, Regis and Cahir are cramped in the back. They don’t talk, the noise in the cockpit prevents that even with headsets, so Geralt takes his time to think. The flight to Mayena will take about as long as it did from Brokilon to Vizima.

The guards’ notes didn’t contain the address of the Mayena coordinator, but Cahir has info of his own, so they hope they’re about to find the right person, preferably alive.

Geralt knows that Rience, Bonhart and Shirrú are still in town: they were the ones to cut the loose ends, so all Geralt found here was one dead body and notes. He still wonders why the notes weren’t taken. Does Roggeveen want that hard for Geralt to find him? Is that the reason Geralt didn’t feel like a target during their city run? He has danger detection instincts, he would know if he was being watched, but after that one episode of uneasiness two days ago, yesterday it was only checking addresses, finding evidence of the guards’ involvement in the assassination and getting invaluable clues for further actions, with no-one breathing down his back.

He’d love to get witness testimony from one of Roggeveen’s associates, though. The guards disappeared completely; Triss and her tiny team of trusted officers are looking for them, but Geralt suspects that their bodies were simply better hidden than that first guard. He also won’t be surprised if the police start finding other bodies, of people seemingly unrelated to the plot, but influential enough to possibly be Roggeveen’s associates, just like Jonne. Roggeveen doesn’t go after simple folk, no, his people have to be useful. Drug dealers, police officers, probably the Royals agents, minor officials… And Geralt can’t even dream of finding all of them.

Geralt is shaken out of his reverie by Regis’ hand on his shoulder. Geralt glances at his partner and smiles, but it’s thin and not convincing anyone of anything.

The flight is uneventful, at least. Mayena has two airports and Milva chooses the smaller one, south of the city.

When they hop out of the aircraft, they all manage to stifle a groan of relief as Milva watches them with narrowed eyes.

“I wonder if there’s something left of the old druid circle,” Regis says in a light tone as they take their belongings from the aircraft.

Geralt frowns at him.

“Won’t have time to check,” he drawls.

“Why not? We should go to Brant at night, so—” Cahir protests.

“No,” Geralt cuts in, puts on his backpack and goes to the terminal. When they catch up with him, Regis looks smug.

“It’s not fucking funny,” Geralt snaps at him.

“Haven’t you considered checking, at least?” Regis asks, his voice still mild, but more serious now.

“I had over seventy years to do it and I didn’t, now’s a worse time than ever, so stop it.”

“Alright, I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me.”

“It was, yeah.”

They walk in silence, Geralt a few steps ahead of them.

“What was that about?” Cahir asks Regis in a whisper.

“He can still hear you,” Milva replies instead. Cahir purses his lips and Regis doesn’t say anything.

They spend the rest of the day in a cafeteria about an hour walk from their destination. Geralt's activated Keira’s trinket so he’s harder to recognise. They make sure they order appropriate amounts of food to justify staying here for hours. Geralt has an appetite of a wolf, making the cafeteria staff both awed and terrified about how much food he’s able to consume, but he’s not about to tell them he’s a witcher. Milva’s nagging Regis to make him tell her what species he is and is quickly joined by Cahir. Geralt receives a text message from Dandelion reporting that he’s arrived safely to Kovir and that Dijkstra tried to convince him to return to Vizima when he was waiting at Oxenfurt Airport for the plane to Lan Exeter; it lifts one major worry off Geralt’s shoulders.

Before they have to leave, it feels like a simple friends’ meeting and not a mission to find possible traitors.

“My mother was from Mayena,” Geralt says, looking out the window as the sun sets, painting the sky with oranges and reds. “She left me with the Wolf School witchers when I was about three, I don’t remember her and I’ve never met her after that. I know she was the flaminica of the Mayena druid circle, and since she was a sorceress, she may be still alive.”

“I thought sorceresses can’t have children,” Milva says in a hushed tone, astonished by his honesty about something so private.

“I bet she thought so, too,” Geralt replies and smiles at Milva, reassuring her he’s fine sharing this piece of information.

They set out in pairs: Geralt with Cahir and Regis with Milva. The second pair reaches their destination just as Geralt finishes the reconnaissance around the house of their next potential source of information, Chalimir Brant.

The lights on the second floor are lit and they can’t see anyone moving inside behind the drawn curtains. The road in front of the house is quiet; shrubs and trees growing beside it provide good hiding spots.

Geralt and Cahir prepare their guns and go to the front door. Geralt picks the lock and opens the door as quietly as possible; he and Cahir go in first, with Regis and Milva ordered to stay by the door. Guns drawn, they search the house on light feet, separately to cover more ground.

Geralt hears a commotion from upstairs, Cahir’s yelp and someone running. He dashes out of the room he’s currently in and runs towards the stairs, just to see a man sprinting towards the entrance.

Then, there’s Milva’s indignant “hey!”, a swish of air and the man falls to the ground. He’s conscious, but there’s a thin trickle of blood running from his hair. He groans.

Geralt looks at Milva just as she puts her slingshot back in her jacket pocket. She shrugs when she sees him staring.

A small stone, the same she picked up from the flowerbed in Vizima, lies near Brant.

“Saved the day again,” Cahir comments as he descends the stairs.

Geralt frowns, approaches the downed man and turns him, so he lies face-up.

“Hardal Gielas. Why I’m not surprised,” he grinds out, looking at the face of the man who beat him up in prison after the King’s assassination. He glances at Cahir. “Explains why you didn’t catch him previously.”

* * *

Gielas is sitting in a chair in his living room downstairs, facing the window. Cahir stands beside him, gun drawn and aimed at his head; Regis is right behind Gielas, hands on the backrest for an additional effect of threat, Milva stands by the door, filming the whole scene on Geralt's phone. Geralt leans against the wall in front of the agent, arms crossed on his chest, legs crossed at the ankles: the posture closed and seemingly relaxed.

“So that fake testimony and getting handsy on me wasn’t the righteous fury,” Geralt says. “You wanted to make sure I was released, preferably without support from the law enforcement.”

“It didn’t work entirely as we wanted, but you’re here, in the end, aren't you,” Gielas replies calmly. “Finding all the breadcrumbs that Vilgefortz told us to leave for you, leading you straight to him, but you must be aware of it already, Mister Skilled Investigator.”

“Why didn’t you just try to kidnap me?”

Gielas scoffs.

“‘Try’ is the operative word. We all know it would be more trouble than it’s worth and you’re going to find him by yourself anyway.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I do, but I’m not going to tell you. We want to put you in some more trouble and we need all the time we can get.”

Geralt purses his lips. As reluctant as he is to admit it, their efforts work. He’s left alone by the law enforcement for now, but when Roggeveen is dead and he has to get back to Vizima, he’ll have to face all the skeletons he didn’t manage to keep hidden in the closet and explain his presence in some places, like the flat of the first guard, as he doesn’t have the solid alibi for the time of his death. Temerians’ attitude towards non-humans is complicated, and he has a history of being in places of destruction. The longer it takes for him to find Roggeveen, the more opportunities there are to discredit him and make him unwelcome in the city he started to call home years ago. Anaïs’ pardon won’t change anything. People will hate him and consider him too dangerous. His work with the Police is already over.

“And why hasn’t Rience killed you yet?” Geralt asks.

“Call it destiny, we had to meet each other again,” Gielas replies with a sneer.

There’s a sound of breaking glass right by Geralt, Regis grunts and takes a step back, clutching his stomach. Gielas leans forward in his chair and then falls to the floor.

“Shit!” Geralt barks, pushes Milva to the ground and runs out and to the back of the house. The backyard is empty and all Geralt can see beyond the fence are more houses just like Gielas’. He tries to listen in, but the neighbourhood is too noisy for him to catch any trace of the killer.

He remembers a killing like this when his snitch called Yamurlak was shot in bright daylight from a sniper rifle. Back then he became a target as well. This time nobody shoots at him, even though he’s in the open.

He gets back to the house after a few minutes. Cahir and Milva are covering behind the wall, Regis is sitting beside Gielas’ body, wiping his stomach while trying to hide the sight from their human companions. Geralt assesses him quickly: Regis has already recovered, the only permanent damage was done to his clothes.

“Let’s check the house,” he grunts and motions at Cahir.

It doesn’t take long for them to find Gielas’ notes in the office upstairs. Milva and Regis join them by that time, Milva keeping an eye on Regis like a mother hen, or rather, mother hawk.

Geralt shuffles through a notebook with his hands in latex gloves, when a small piece of paper falls out and onto the floor. He picks it up, reads it and frowns.

“Where did you two meet?” he asks, glancing between Cahir and Milva.

“Near Mealybug Moors,” Cahir replies.

“What were you doing there?”

“I was checking out a contact in Razwan, someone hit me on the head and took me there in a car boot. I managed to get out.”

“And you?” Geralt asks Milva.

“The dryads detected evil magic, I was doing a flyover when my engine broke and I had to do an emergency landing.”

Geralt turns the paper and shows the note to his companions. On it is an address in Razwan.

“Is that your contact’s address?” he asks.

“No, but there was a second man in the car, maybe it’s his.”

“Razwan has a really nice airstrip,” Milva smiles.

“Need to call Roche,” Geralt murmurs. “I fucking told him to check Gielas’ connections.”

* * *

They don’t leave as quickly as Geralt would want. Geralt spends the rest of the night on the phone with Roche. He doesn’t tell the agent where he’s going next, he just sends the recording of his conversation with Gielas. It doesn’t need editing: Milva was careful to focus only on Gielas and Geralt, so Regis and Cahir aren’t recognisable on the video, even though it’s obvious there were more people in the room than just the two of them.

Roche, for once, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t order Geralt to stay in place until reinforcements come. The agent is well aware that various channels of communication are compromised even with Geralt’s encrypted phone. He sounds angry, too, not at Geralt, but at himself and the whole situation. The seriousness of the situation rarely hits him so hard. Roggeveen’s network is wider than they ever expected, although him having his people among the Royals isn’t surprising. They still have no way of fishing out everyone involved with the sorcerer: they’ll either disappear, become sleepers or get killed before the “honest” part of the law enforcement finds them.

There’s no playful bonding during the short flight to Razwan. The aircraft’s engine stutters from time to time, but Milva stays calm while her passengers grip the handholds. They’re all tired after the sleepless night, even Regis. When they land at the Razwan airstrip, Geralt asks for boiling water at the terminal and makes his customary, stinking tea with the bag he takes out of his backpack’s pocket. Milva and Cahir buy themselves a coffee, not daring to even ask Geralt to share his mysterious drink with them.

They don’t wait until midnight to check the address, they go there straight from the airport. As they approach their destination, Geralt’s medallion starts to vibrate and Milva’s glowing orb brightens. Geralt orders Milva and Regis to stay behind as he and Cahir run into the house.

The door is open and Geralt’s medallion’s hum intensifies. Geralt runs towards the source of magic and then stops dead in his tracks.

A man is sitting on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back. On the couch and the armchair on both sides of him sit Triss Merigold and Philippa Eilhart. There’s a long package propped against Triss’ armchair. Both women sit in relaxed poses, their legs crossed at the knees, arms handing over the armrests and smug expressions on their faces.

“Um, that’s one of the men who tried to take me to the Moors,” Cahir murmurs. The sorceresses don’t react to him.

“Roche told us that Gielas had some recent dealings with this man,” Triss says to Geralt, waving her hand at their prisoner. “We figured you’d get here eventually.”

Geralt forces himself to relax.

“And what did you find out?” Geralt asks.

“There’s a gang led by a man named Straggen, who did some business with one of Roggeveen’s bogus companies around here and now there’s a lot of noise around them here and further south,” Philippa says. “Apparently, you’re heading in the right direction.”

Geralt glances at Cahir over his shoulder. He returns the look, turns around and leaves.

“What’s in Mealybug Moors?” Geralt asks the prisoner.

The man has a glossy look in his eyes; Geralt can guess he’s under some powerful spell.

“There’s a contact box, not far into the Moors by the main road,” the man replies, his voice absent. “We used it to send messages and as a meeting point with Straggen or his people.”

“Why there?”

“It’s deserted.”

Geralt glances at the sorceresses.

“We’ve always suspected Roggeveen is hiding somewhere there,” Philippa adds. “Either at the Moors or in the ruins of Vidort or Carcano.”

Geralt nods.

Even witchers tend to avoid the place if there’s no profitable contract. There are no detailed maps, the paths are barely visible. The main road mentioned by their prisoner ends in the middle of nowhere. Because of the magic, no-one can make a flyover over the Moors, so looking for any kind of hideout would require checking on foot, and with the size and the history the place has, no-one can survive it. Closed borders mean they can’t check from the Yaruga’s side, because that would require going to Cintra.

“So now we can only hope we’ll find something at the contact box,” Geralt murmurs. He doesn’t look forward to venturing deeper into the Moors, but he knows he will have to.

Triss picks up the long package by her hand and passes it to Geralt.

“If you’re going to go to the Moors and meet Roggeveen, you’ll need this.”

Geralt unwraps it and finds a scabbard with a sword. With a quick look at the blade, he finds it's silver. He looks at Triss.

“Eskel ordered it for you when you were in Brokilon,” she explains. “There are silver bullets, too, and ones that can’t be manipulated by magic.”

“We learn from experience,” Philippa murmurs.

Geralt looks between them and realises the bullets were their joint effort.

“There’s also this,” Triss takes a coin-like amulet from her pocket. “We managed to read the frequency of the magic in the Moors, so it should protect you from it, keeping appliances like your phone alive. There are also a few other perks to it you’ll be delighted to discover, along with a little something else at the bottom of the bag to help you deal with one particular problem the witcher way.”

Geralt raises his eyebrow at her, but she only gives him a sweet smile.

“So, you want me to get rid of the shield? To tip the balance after so long?” he asks.

“It’s high time,” Philippa says. “The shield isn’t just an inconvenience; we wouldn’t be ourselves if we didn’t help the world somewhat.”

Geralt snorts.

“Yeah, right. Why don’t you go there yourself?”

“Because that little thing doesn’t solve all our problems with the Moors’ magic and our heads will explode if we go there,” Philippa admits with a smile, pointing at the amulet. “You have much more space in that thick skull of yours, you’ll survive.” She sounds almost affectionate.

“Yeah, I loved working with you, too,” Geralt replies with a toothy smile.

For the first time in a long time, he also feels like he really has allies. Olgierd von Everec is helpful, Geralt was allowed to get away with a lot; even with Regis by his side he felt like he was alone in his fight against Roggeveen, but these two women are with him on this, solidly. Both are powerful, loyal to the cause and motivated to find Roggeveen.

“We’ll stay here,” Triss says. “Give us a call when you’re done with Roggeveen, we’ll find a way to get to you.”

Geralt zips up the bag, slings it over his shoulder, nods to them and leaves.

* * *

They fly out of Razwan the same day. Milva has warned them that the flight won't last long. This time, they talk about Cahir's adventure with Asper and the eventful meeting between him and Milva.

The engine sputters and dies around the same place where Milva had to emergency land the last time. Because she was prepared for this, she’s flown low enough to not clip any trees on the way and make the landing as short and safe as possible.

They jump out of the aircraft and look at the looming and mangled trees on the horizon, about two hours walk from where they are.

“Please tell me we won’t go there straight away,” Milva whines.

“We won’t,” Geralt replies. “We’ll stay here for the night, we need to rest anyway.”

“And going there at night equals a death sentence,” Regis adds. “We have some defying death to do in the future, so let’s save it for later.”

Geralt sets up a Yrden circle around the aircraft and after that Milva decides to risk a hunt and goes out to a nearby, healthy forest with a long package of her own, while the men prepare a bonfire. She returns with six rabbits and a compound bow slung over her shoulder.

“A true dryad, I see,” Regis comments with a smile. Geralt smirks and uses Igni to set fire to the wood they’ve gathered.

“Is this the Path life?” Cahir asks as he skins the rabbits. They sit around the fire, all of them with a little chore: cleaning weapons, checking their equipment, sharpening sticks to cook the rabbits on them, seasoning skinned rabbits with spices dug out of Regis’ bag...

“The Path is more solitary,” Geralt says with a glance at him. He has the amulet from Triss in his hands and he looks at it closely, checking every detail.

“He wants to say that he appreciates the company,” Regis says with a smile as he rubs spices into the meat.

“Well, some of it anyway,” Geralt shrugs. Cahir and Milva smirk at him.

During dinner, Cahir and Geralt talk about their first meeting, at the funeral of Ciri’s mother.

“I hated that job,” Cahir says. “var Emreis used the Nilfgaardian Intelligence for his private purposes. From the first moment I saw you with Cirilla, I knew you cared about her more than her biological father. He just wanted to control the situation.”

“He wasn’t there when Ciri ended up with child’s services three years later. He’s slightly better now,” Geralt admits. “Somewhat trying, especially after the shootout in Gors Velen.”

“So it happens that chosen families are often bonded closer than those of blood,” Milva murmurs and gets a soft smile from Regis in return.

“You said you got into trouble in Razwan, because your contact knew your old boss wanted to get in touch,” Geralt says to Cahir. “I wonder how that happened, how did he know?”

“It could have been my fault,” Cahir admits. “I never told anyone why I was looking for Rience’s associates, but maybe some of them knew I was considered dead and—”

“Yeah, but how did Asper get that envelope? Why did he have it in the first place?”

Cahir shakes his head.

“Whatever happened, I’m glad I got that chance,” he murmurs.

Geralt only looks down.

After supper they decide who will stand guard: Cahir first, per his request, then Regis for the rest of the night. Milva looks at Regis with suspicion when he declares he doesn’t need sleep, then at Geralt when the witcher doesn’t argue. Milva and Geralt make their beds inside the aircraft, Cahir takes care of the fire and Regis disappears into the forest.

Milva wakes up before sunrise. Cahir sleeps curled by the bonfire, covered in a blanket, the same he used when he and Milva stayed at Burnt Stump only four days ago. The fire is still burning; Regis is there, reheating some of the meat left from yesterday.

Geralt is still asleep, curled on the back seats with one hand under his face and Milva is surprised by that: he didn’t strike her as a person to allow himself a lie-in. He looks more relaxed than she remembers him from Brokilon. She exits the cockpit as quietly as possible and takes her toolbox from under her seat.

“What are you doing?”

Milva jumps at the sound of Geralt’s hoarse voice. By the way he stretches as far as he can and then rubs his eyes, she can see he’d needed a good night’s sleep. The seats aren’t comfortable for sleeping, but they’re better than the ground.

“I’ll try to fix the engine, and it went well when Cahir helped me last time.”

“No use,” Geralt grunts as he sits up, propped on his elbows. “The magic here’s too active, you won’t be able to fix it until we find the source, and I have some ideas.”

“What do you mean?”

“Will tell you later, but for now we have to leave and find the contact box,” he replies and puts his feet on the floor, ready to jump out.

“I don’t want to leave her here like that!” Milva argues.

Geralt stops.

“‘Her’?”

Milva waves her hand, indicating the aircraft.

“Really? Your aircraft is a she?” Geralt asks with astonishment.

Milva puts her hands on her hips.

“Your motorbike has a name,” she points out.

Geralt pauses.

“Fair enough,” he nods and jumps out of the cockpit.

They eat breakfast and then gather their belongings, especially weapons; Milva locks the aircraft after Geralt sets a stronger Yrden around it and with a last look at it she jogs after the rest of the team, now marching towards the Moors, bags over shoulders and with rhythmic steps, like a war party.

* * *

For some time it’s Cahir who leads them. He quickly finds the place his fight for life occurred: there are some broken shrubs and something that looks like an open boot of a car that was drowned in the bog.

They find the contact box two hours after setting out from the aircraft, not far from the car. It’s a steel crate inside a wooden, decrepit hut without the front wall, maybe a hundred metres from the main path.

On the crate sits Gaunter O’Dimm, legs crossed at the ankles, hands propped by his sides.

Geralt signals to his companions to stay behind as he approaches the man, walking the barely visible path.

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks sharply.

“I was just wondering if you need my help looking for Vilgefortz Roggeveen,” O’Dimm replies.

Dressed in a hoodie and jeans, the alleged demon looks almost friendly, non-threatening. He’s open, there’s a soft smile on his face.

“Would ask you where Roggeveen is, but such information from someone like you must come with a price, so I’ll do fine on my own, thanks,” Geralt grinds out.

O’Dimm shrugs.

“Fair enough, but there’s something I think you should know: I have a contract with Roggeveen, I fulfilled my part helping his people kill Foltest. My reward is Roggeveen’s soul.”

“Guessed so. Nice. I bet he’ll enjoy eternity with you.”

“He made a bargain. He promised me your soul.”

Geralt tenses.

“You’re safe from me,” O’Dimm waves his hand dismissively. “The way he phrased it means he has to deliver your soul personally. He has to kill you himself or the bargain is void.”

“That explains a few things, actually,” Geralt murmurs. “What about him? Any special conditions for his soul?”

“Anyone can drop a tonne of rock on his head and he’s mine. The whole deal means that when I get either you or him, the other person is free of the bargain.”

“So he just has to die, but for you to get me, he has to kill me.”

O’Dimm nods.

“Why did you agree?” Geralt asks.

“A soul is a soul. The angrier the tastier, and one full of hate is the sweetest of them all.”

Judging by the smile on O’Dimm’s face, Geralt’s soul will be pretty tasty, about as much as Roggeveen’s.

“Why are you telling me this?” Geralt asks.

“I always play fair. Someone made a bargain with a soul that isn’t theirs, I thought I’d help even the odds.”

“Thanks,” Geralt says and turns to leave. Even with O’Dimm’s friendly demeanour, spending time in this man’s vicinity is unpleasant.

“Tell you what,” O’Dimm calls after him and Geralt stops. “Vilgefortz made a deal with your soul, how about you deliver me his and I’ll do you a favour.”

Geralt glances at him over his shoulder.

“I don’t want to deal with you.”

“Come on, Haute, it’s harmless!” O’Dimm spreads his arms. “He has to kill you to get out of his deal. You have to kill him to get something from me and that’s it, we’re done and happy. A favour from me for direct delivery.”

Geralt turns back to him and purses his lips.

“You're looking for Roggeveen to kill him anyway, why not get a bonus for the effort? What do you need, huh? Maybe something like a signed testimony that you didn’t kill the King, and mentioning other Roggeveen’s affairs? You’ll survive without it, but it would make your life easier, wouldn’t it?”

“You don’t exist in any files anyway,” Geralt argues.

“That’s my problem I’m willing to solve if the need arises.”

Geralt looks down.

“Roggeveen’s soul for the testimony and we’re done,” Gaunter tempts him. “He dies in some other way, you don’t get the paper and that’s also it. No catches.”

“And no handshakes and written contracts,” Geralt says, looking at O’Dimm sharply.

“Then I can’t promise anything,” O’Dimm shrugs.

“I’ll survive, as you said.”

O’Dimm smiles.

“I’d love to deal with you, that would be delightful.”

Geralt feels a shiver run up his spine.

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” O’Dimm adds like he didn’t notice the tension of Geralt’s body.

“Why? I’m in as much trouble with you as Roggeveen.”

O’Dimm jumps off the crate.

“You didn’t ask for the bargain and didn’t work your whole life to end up in my care,” he says, his face now serious. “I’m not picky, but sometimes I feel this bitter aftertaste when I get a soul that doesn’t deserve eternal doom.”

Geralt raises his eyebrows, surprised by the veiled praise. When he blinks, O’Dimm is gone.

He almost jumps when his mobile rings in his jacket pocket. He takes it out and looks at the screen. He’s even more surprised when he sees the Skellige area code.

He accepts the call after the second signal.

“Yes?” he says carefully.

“Dad?” asks a very familiar voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are more than welcome.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in a world far far away, a certain teenager has the adventure of her life; a.k.a The Author Had a Lot of Fun Writing Crossovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciri is another character I never know what to do with (just like Dandelion the Poet/Singer - I’m fine with Dandelion the Friend and the Inn Owner, the Poet/Singer is beyond me). So, sorry, Ciri fans. I hope her having an exclusive chapter makes up for it somehow.

Ciri’s well aware that she’s completely lost in the universe. At least this place is friendly-ish, although so different from her world she was paralysed with fear at the beginning, when she saw the tall buildings, almost no greenery, thousands of people in the streets, countless cars, and heard the loud music, the machinery, the foreign languages. Gunshots are so common no-one pays them any attention. People here are modified with technology! A lot of people have something metal implanted into their bodies. Here is an eye that looks normal but is probably an advanced scanner. There is a hand with pincers instead of fingers. The top of someone else’s head is detachable to show… she has no idea what. It looks like a computer, and she has no idea of its purpose.

Still. She has a roof over her head, enough food for her to go by, and clean clothes, thanks to the woman named Claudia, running a grocery shop in a side street near a circular market not far from the centre of the city; the shop seems to be very popular in the local community, with unruly kids playing outside, men and women running or driving to work in the morning and then sitting with the kids on the street in the evening, exchanging rumours and having fun.

It’s the fifth world she’s landed on after her uncontrolled, panicked Jump from her home.

The first world wasn’t even populated, at least not on the surface and not by humans. The air was foggy and had a slightly bitter smell, but it was breathable. There were some animal sounds among the tall rocky spires, something flying high in the air, but the greenish fumes over the reddish plants didn’t look safe, so she tried to imagine her world and Jumped again.

The second world looked very familiar at a first glance: she landed in an alley in a city; she could see the crowd passing the mouth of the alley and among the people she quickly recognised humans, elves and dwarves. At first, when she saw the people’s clothes and realised that horses and carts were in use, not bikes and cars, she thought she Jumped in time in her world to the time before the technological boom, but when she walked into the street, trying to stay out of the crowd’s way, she knew that wasn’t it: the city she was in was nothing she’d ever heard of. It looked more populated than Vizima; it was built around a shoulder of a tall mountain with a majestic white spur overlooking the city, with multiple walled levels carved into the slopes and the main street leading in zig-zag to the top of the mountain, with tunnels carved through the spur and gates protecting each level. It looked majestic, worthy of being a capital of a powerful country.

Beyond the city’s outer walls on the lowest level — it looked like she was on the second level — she saw vast land with scattered farms, and farther beyond that was a mountain range. The language people spoke sounded somewhat familiar, but she didn’t understand the words. The architecture was recognisable, clearly of elvish origin with dwarven and human influences. Even magic here felt familiar, it permeated the air.

The weather was mild and she felt safe, so she stayed there, sleeping in a shed behind a blacksmith’s workshop on the third level, eating slightly stale but still edible bread someone threw away. She rarely left her hideout and when she did, it was with a stolen — borrowed! — coat hiding her neon parka. Her stay didn’t last long: three days later she was found and couldn’t answer any questions from the angry blacksmith; she was sure she was about to be beaten, so she Jumped again.

She landed at the edge of a forest. It was night, the rain was pouring, she was immediately soaked and freezing in the chill air. She ran to the trees, hoping to find some cover when she noticed multiple blue lights. She was so startled she tripped and fell to the ground. Some of the lights turned yellow and soon she heard the sound of heavy steps that didn’t sound human at all, or even animal: it was utterly mechanical. Hidden in the tall grass, she saw two peculiar, animal-looking machines: one of four legs, looking like a deer, but with two spiky antlers looking like drills; the other, smaller one, walked on two legs, had a long tail and long neck ending with something resembling a head with a singular, huge eye. The machines chirped like they were talking to each other. The smaller one stopped maybe two metres from Ciri, raised its head and looked around. Then, both machines turned away and went where they came from, their "eyes" blue again.

She didn’t dare to leave her hideout in the grass before the rain stopped and she could see the first signs of dawn on the horizon. During that time a whole herd of those deer-looking machines passed her, along with some real animals: boars, foxes and rabbits. There was no sign of people inhabiting this world, no buildings or roads in her field of vision, so she decided she can’t stay here. She sat up in the grass, closed her eyes and tried to imagine her world properly, just like Yennefer and Triss had taught her, when she heard the angry chirping of the bipedal machine she’d seen before: it saw her, its eye was red now and it was running straight at her. Ciri took a deep breath and Jumped blind.

She landed in the outskirts of a settlement, built on flat plains with no hills, mountains or forests in sight. The weather was warmer than in the previous world, the sun — paler than in her world, and were those two moons in the sky? — was setting. She didn’t want to spend the night in the open field, so she walked towards the settlement: it wasn’t even a town.

The buildings looked like termite mounds she’d seen in a schoolbook, with one door at ground level and no windows. Only narrow paths connected the mounds, there were no roads leading to the settlement. Fruit trees grew around it, fruit looking like apples and oranges seemed to be ripe, ready for eating.

She quickly noticed that the people living there weren’t human. Sure, they were bipedal and symmetrical with two arms ending with five-fingered hands, but their bald heads were disproportionately huge for their bluish bodies and about one-third of the face was occupied by a single, huge, black eye, with no other features on their faces. All of the people seemed to be adults, all of the same height and similarly built, she didn’t see any children or beings of different races or species.

She quickly realised she stood out as a human, her jeans and neon green parka over a jumper, all still soaking wet from the rain in the machine-populated world not helping the matters of blending in. She knew her jacket wasn’t the best in terms of camouflage, and she thought of wearing it on the left side, but the lining was light grey and there was still some green visible, so then she’d not only stand out but also look doubly peculiar, even in this world; not to mention the utter unpleasantness of wearing wet clothes. She couldn’t take off her jeans, so she removed the parka and her dark grey jumper, leaving her black t-shirt on; she bundled the jacket and the jumper up and just carried it under her arm, so it was easier to stick to the shadows.

She was thirsty, but the closest body of water wasn’t looking too inviting and she saw that people avoided it. The fact that it was a truly alien world worried her: with the population so unlike anything she’d known, she had no idea whether following their example with the choice of food and drink was the sensible thing to do. Maybe their metabolism was different, maybe what they ate would be poisonous to her, maybe the rain from the clouds gathering on the horizon would be acid and hurt her while causing no damage to the people here.

At least her clothes dried in the first few hours here.

She knew she was in trouble: she was tiring and realising she had nowhere near enough control over her Power to get back home. She’d barely slept in the last few days, always on high alert. She tried to rest, hidden from sight, but her sleep was full of nightmares, including images of Geralt screaming in pain, of bright lights surrounding him. When she tried to eat some fruit nicked from the orchard, she ended up violently sick, which added to her developing a cold. It took her almost three days to recover and realise this world is unhealthy for her: the air was sucking up her energy and if she’d spend too much time here, she’d probably die a quite unpleasant death.

So she Jumped again, thinking only about landing in the human world.

And so, she landed here.

She still wasn’t feeling well after her food poisoning, shivering and fighting nausea. After getting over the initial shock she started to wander the streets of the huge city, full of skyscrapers taller than anything she’d ever seen, roads wide and busy, with newspapers, empty cans and other junk littering the sidewalks. Here, her neon green parka looked normal, so she put it on, put her hands into the pockets and walked, hunched onto herself while trying to observe her surroundings, watching the people bustling about, all of them looking human except the modifications. No-one paid her any attention and she was fine with it.

She felt her strength slowly returning. The shivers subsided after only three hours. By the time she realised she was in a poor district, she knew she didn’t understand the language, but food in the street bars and grocery shops looked familiar and safe for her. She felt hungry for the first time in days.

The problem was, she had no money and no way to earn it.

The stalls in front of a grocery shop close to the mouth of a small alley caught her attention and she stopped, her mouth salivating at the sight of the apples, tomatoes and other fruit and vegetables. Her stomach rumbled and she clenched her hands into fists to stop herself from stealing anything. She didn’t want to get into trouble, she had no idea where she’d end up if she Jumped now. The air here — polluted, but much more friendly than in the last world — didn’t restore her magic power and she was running low now. She had to figure out the way to get back home, but for now, it seemed like she would be spending some time here.

A woman, about as tall as Ciri, with a rich copper brown skin, stepped out of the shop and said something to Ciri with a smile typical to shop-clerks. Ciri startled and started to shake her head, stepping back.

The woman looked like she was in her late-thirties, but Ciri, surrounded by sorceresses, immortals and altered humans, had serious problems estimating someone’s age. The woman was dressed in a simple, button-down pink shirt and dark trousers, the clothes hugging her curved figure with a slender waist. She was modified, too: her right hand looked human, but there was a line encircling her wrist. Other than that, she looked normal; her black, straight, shoulder-length hair was kept back with a bright yellow headband, she wore soft makeup and fingernails of both hands were painted bright pink. She gave off an air of friendliness, but also of a calm authority.

The woman raised an eyebrow at Ciri, took an apple from the stall and offered it to the girl. Ciri shook her head again and showed her the empty pockets. The woman only raised her other eyebrow, still standing there with the apple in the outstretched hand.

“I don’t have any money,” Ciri said, aware that the woman most likely couldn’t understand her.

The woman only rolled her eyes at her and threw the apple at Ciri in an arch, making the fruit easy to catch.

Ciri managed it and noticed only now how miserable she was looking, based only on the dirt on her hands. Her clothes were dirty, too, and she was afraid to look in the mirror after over a week of wandering between worlds.

The woman said something, most likely asked her a question, judging by the tone.

“I can’t understand you,” Ciri said, pointing at her ear with her free hand and shaking her head.

The woman said something different and very slowly; Ciri realised she thought the girl was deaf.

“I can hear you, I can’t understand you,” she replied, trying to convey her meaning in gestures.

It was enough, the woman nodded. She glanced between the apple in Ciri’s hand and the girl’s face. Ciri startled, she almost forgot she had the fruit. She took a bite: it was sweet and juicy, just like at home. She groaned with pleasure and smiled at the woman.

The woman returned the smile, then she pointed at her chest.

“Claudia,” she said.

“Ciri,” the girl replied once she swallowed the piece of the apple, and copied the gesture. “Claudia,” she repeated, pointing at the woman.

“Ciri,” Claudia replied and smiled.

After the introductions, Claudia led her through the shop to a flat upstairs. The room she was led to didn’t look lived in, but it had a single bed, a wardrobe and a fully equipped small en-suite. Claudia took some bed linens, towels and clean clothes from the wardrobe, put them on the bed, made a gesture suggesting that Ciri was allowed use all of it, then smiled at her softly and left the room, closing the sliding door behind her.

Ciri stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. She knew she was some sort of a charity case and it was only a matter of time before she’d have to repay the kindness. She was exhausted, though, dirty and still hungry: the apple made her feel the days she’d spent without the proper amount of food.

She took off her clothes and put them on the bed, then went to the bathroom with a towel in hand. The sink and the toilet looked familiar; the shower didn’t have the faucet handle, but a single button. She pushed it and the water started running at the perfect temperature; she almost melted with pleasure. The water was soapy, tingling on her skin, but it wasn’t unpleasant. She couldn’t find a sponge, but, as she saw the colour of the water running down the drain, she realised she didn’t need it: something in the water managed to remove the dirt from her skin. She still rubbed her body with her hands and ran her fingers through her hair, untangling and washing it.

When the water was clean, Ciri pushed the button again and the water stopped. Ciri would have loved to spend more time here, but she didn’t want to waste the water. She stepped out of the shower and towelled herself dry. She returned to the bedroom with the towel wrapped around her body. Her clothes were gone; a tray with food lay on the bedside table. She hoped she’d get her things back; for now she dressed into the t-shirt and shorts provided by Claudia earlier. The clothes were too big around the chest and hips, but they were clean, so Ciri wasn’t going to complain.

On the tray, there was a big bowl of rich stew, a glass of water and a plate with fruit. Ciri dug in, savouring the taste. She was glad everything was so familiar here in the details: the food she could recognise, people used water to wash and sewed their clothes from cotton. Everything else — the languages, the technology, the fact that people had pieces of machinery implanted into their bodies — didn’t matter at the moment. She’d get used to it once she was rested and had the energy and time to think.

She wondered how long she’d be allowed — or forced — to stay here. She had to figure out the way to get back home and she didn’t know where to start.

When she finished the food, the full force of her exhaustion hit her. She started swaying on the bed, even when sitting down. She just laid on the covers and two seconds later she was asleep.

* * *

She woke up rested and slightly hungry again. The tray was still on her bedside table, her clothes were still gone: no-one had come here while she had been sleeping. The night fell in the meantime; she could see the neon lights through the window.

She took the tray, stepped out of the room and looked around. The hallway she was in was short, with the stairs leading down to the shop on one end, and three doors on this floor. One of the doors was open and she could hear the sound of running water and clanking dishes, so she went there.

Claudia was washing the dishes in the kitchen. The room was comfortably large, quite cluttered, and the appliances looked rusty, somewhat old-fashioned for such a modern world. Ciri wondered whether it was by choice.

Claudia turned towards her when Ciri stepped into the room. The woman smiled at her and dried her hands.

She asked Ciri a question, tilted her head to lay it on her hands, joined flat: the universal gesture for “sleep”.

“Very well, thank you,” Ciri replied, putting her hand on her chest over her heart and bowing slightly. Claudia smiled.

Claudia went to a panel on the wall, pushed a few buttons on the touch screen and a map of the city appeared. Claudia gestured at the map, then at Ciri, and raised her eyebrows.

Ciri shook her head. She wasn’t from around here.

Claudia pursed her lips and turned off the screen. She looked worried, standing with a frown on her face and her hands on her hips.

Ciri glanced around. Her clothes had been washed and were now hanging on a dryer. She pointed at the dryer and repeated her gesture of thanks. Claudia gave her a tight-lipped smile.

Ciri felt the need to show she could be useful. She pointed at the sink, still full of dishes, mimed washing and pointed at herself. Claudia raised an eyebrow at her. Ciri pointed at the tray she’d brought and the clothes she was wearing, made a "please" gesture with her hands in a prayer position and a pleading expression on her face.

Claudia smiled softly and nodded.

Ciri started to repay the kindness.

* * *

Ciri quickly notices that days are slightly shorter here than in her world, making her wristwatch useless; it takes her three days to adjust to a different day and night cycle.

Claudia understands that Ciri is willing to help in the shop in exchange for food and lodgings. She doesn’t protest and gives her tasks that become more and more complicated the better she understands that Ciri is quite capable. Usually, it’s running errands and some cleaning; Claudia doesn’t force her to deal with other people. She also starts to teach Ciri one of the local languages. Ciri first learns the _yes, no, thank you, good morning_ and _good night._ The lessons include the alphabet, with similar sounds but different letters to those used in her world.

She also meets some members of the local community, Claudia’s helpers and friends. The woman lives on her own; there are photos on the walls of the room Ciri now occupies, of a teenage girl looking similarly but not exactly like a younger version of Claudia, but Ciri has no idea how to ask about her. Ciri has a feeling that there’s no tragic story behind the photos, Claudia doesn’t seem to be missing or mourning anyone.

Claudia is kind of a leader in the tiny circle of their block: teenage boys and little girls, all with different shades of brown skin, look up to her; during the workday, she’s constantly approached by women about her age and they spend hours talking — gossiping, as Ciri suspects. It all gives the image of a close-knit community and it’s endearing.

Sometimes a boy has to help her run her errands, but only once on one route, just to show her the directions and introduce her to the people she has to deal with. The locals know that she’s new and doesn’t know the language. She’s been accepted amazingly quickly, but she sticks out. She tries to stay out of sight, but Claudia and some of the kids won’t let her, dragging her out of her room in the evenings. Having no choice but to integrate, she takes to watching the kids play in the street, trying to figure out the rules of the games they’re playing. A boy named Jack, slightly older than her, invites her more than once to join them. She agrees only when she’s confident she knows what the game is about. The kids look impressed when she repeats the pattern of jumps over the lines drawn on the pavement; Jack looks shocked. She snorts.

“Only because we can’t understand each other, doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” she says. The kids clap and the game resumes, with Ciri as the equal participant. She laughs with them, jumps with them and exchanges high fives as a goodbye when the adults call out to them to end the games.

It’s the first time she feels sort-of at home here. She’s a foreigner, still unable to communicate freely, but she feels at ease and accepted. It’s good enough, for now.

* * *

Claudia pays her some money every day. Ciri doesn’t want to accept at first, but the woman is insistent. Soon Ciri becomes grateful for the wages; once she figures out the amount of money, which isn’t much but allows her to get by when she saves some of it, she can buy new clothes in her size and food during the day. She eats breakfast with her hostess and is sure Claudia will keep feeding her, but she doesn’t want to exploit her hospitality too much. Claudia doesn’t protest, Ciri’s efforts to be independent aren’t considered rude and the woman even seems approving: at least she doesn’t have to babysit another teenager, having her hands full with the usual lot.

Ciri uses the errands as the opportunity to learn about the world: observing people and taking a peek at street TV. The image she gets isn’t too optimistic: from all she knows, there was a war with millions of casualties in the near past, the deterioration of the environment makes huge areas of land uninhabitable, leaving the city means risking your life and most parts of the city are ruled by gangs. The city is overcrowded, the mayor barely holds onto his power and corporations do what they want.

She learns to avoid crowds and groups of people looking a certain way. She listens to her instinct and always does what it tells her to. She starts to learn about the hierarchy of the society and where Claudia stands in that regard: she’s a simple citizen but respected enough to be left in peace. One of the local gangs seems to be protecting her, but Claudia isn’t an active member.

Running her errands, Ciri now knows who to avoid, who has to be treated with the utmost respect, who will tolerate her being a little bit frank and sometimes jokingly rude, who will laugh with her.

The people Claudia is sending her to quickly get used to the fact Ciri can’t communicate freely with them. Ciri doesn’t care whether they think she’s deaf or anything like that; as long as they don’t cause her problems and don’t try to swindle her, she’s fine.

An incident happens maybe a week after she started to work for Claudia. A well-dressed man in his forties takes a real interest in Ciri and tries to grope her when she’s busy setting up the stall. Ciri reacts by reflex: her elbow lands on the man’s nose, giving a very human scrunch even though it’s robotic. The man yelps and raises his hand to strike her back, but she blocks him and is ready to kick him in the groin when a sharp bark from Claudia stops the fight.

Ciri feels all blood leave her face. She has no idea who this man is and she hopes she hasn’t just damaged some high authority, possibly causing Claudia trouble. The woman starts yelling at the man, gesturing wildly, pausing only to put her hand on Ciri’s shoulder and ask if she’s okay. Ciri nods with a smile, Claudia pats her shoulder and continues to yell at the man, practically kicking him out of her shop. The man doesn’t even protest. Ciri’s standing in the middle of the shop, staring at the scene in shock. When the man is out, Claudia rubs her hands like she’s getting rid of dirt on them, then smiles broadly at Ciri and claps her hands in clear approval. Ciri feels her face heat up. Claudia laughs and returns to her place in the back of the shop, the incident already forgotten.

Something changes, though. The news of the incident in the shop spreads; some of the younger kids start to look up to Ciri and the teenage boys have a clear respect for her in their eyes. Ciri has no idea what exactly happened, what did she prove with her reflexive, defensive move against a much older and possibly influential man, but judging by the reactions in the community, most importantly Claudia’s, that has been the right thing to do. She’s shown she can take care of herself and while the community supports its members, personal independence is highly valued as well.

The next evening after the incident, some boys invite her to playful sparring in the street. She’s seen them fight before: their style is dirty but bloodless. When she steps into the circle of onlookers, she sees a lot of younger girls gathering around them, too, even though they weren’t interested in the sparring in the days before. Ciri realises that the girls have never participated in this sort of a game, she’s probably the only female here displaying any ability to fight. The girls haven’t been discouraged to watch or even learn, just the boys don’t show any interest in teaching them.

Ciri feels her heart speed up in excitement. If she brings something positive to the community, like showing the little girls they can fight for themselves, she will feel less useless here. Claudia is humouring her giving her the errands, the little tasks providing a good excuse for Ciri to earn her own money, but fighting is unique for her. Why not introduce some witcher-style self-defence into this futuristic world.

She’s paired with Jack, the boy who invited her to their games before. He’s maybe a year or two older than Ciri, as tall as her, with skin a deep brown with golden undertones, his black hair cropped very close to the skin; he’s lean, agile and well-muscled: potentially a very difficult opponent, if Ciri hasn’t been sparring with her dad back home.

Jack smiles at her and feigns an attack; she dodges with ease. She does the same and for the next few minutes, they exchange simple jabs and hits, just to learn each other’s technique. When she notices Claudia standing by her shop, arms crossed on her chest and a soft smile on her face, Ciri knows it’s time for the real show.

She doesn’t want to use her power here, but even without it, she’s still a capable fighter. She attacks for real this time, aiming her fist at Jack’s stomach. The boy jumps back at the last moment, his eyes wide with surprise. He smiles at her and changes his tactics in response: the real fight begins.

When Ciri has watched them fight before, she’s noticed they never aimed for the face and she sticks to this rule now, aiming her hits and kicks at Jack’s torso and legs. She lands much more hits than Jack, even though she knows he isn’t holding back once he realises what she’s capable of. He’s not angry, he has real fun, his upper body — he got rid of his shirt at some point — glistening with sweat, a wide smile on his face.

Ciri’s barely out of breath.

He stops her at some point and waves his hand at his friend, Peter. Peter’s older than them but shorter and skinnier than Ciri. Jack gestures between himself and Peter, then points at Ciri.

“Two for one? Fine by me,” she says with a smile and adds _‘yes’_ in the local language. The kids here are used to her talking in her language; as long as she does something to let them understand her, they are fine. Some kids even have started to repeat after her. Jack knows “yes”, “no” and “thank you” in Common now.

And so the fight resumes. Peter is a poor fighter, but he serves as a distraction, forcing Ciri to divide her attention to two potential targets and doubling the fun for her. Ciri is still winning, when she notices that their sparring catches a lot of attention.

Around them are people she’s never seen before, including two fair-skinned, tall men in suits, wearing sunglasses even though it’s past sunset already and the only light comes from the neons and street lamps. They look like bodyguards or secret agents and they stare straight at her.

Behind them stands the man she defended herself from yesterday.

She falters, feeling a sudden stab of panic.

Jack notices it and stops before he hits her. He grabs Ciri by her upper arm and leads her to the shop, the local onlookers crowding behind them, hiding Ciri from sight. Some of them stay outside with Claudia; Jack leads her through the shop to the backyard and sits her on a crate by the wall.

The backyard is a cluttered square, about fifty metres long on each side, shared by several flats and shops around it. Claudia uses her corner for storage of non-perishable goods. While it’s enclosed, it provides multiple escape routes through other shops.

Ciri notices she’s shaking, sitting curled on a crate, hugging her knees. She has no idea who these men have been, but her instinct screamed at her at the sight of them.

Jack goes back to the shop, comes back with a closed bottle of beer, opens it in front of Ciri’s eyes and hands it to her. She accepts it with a shy smile and a _thank you,_ getting a grin and a thumbs up in return. She isn’t of age in her world, but here are different rules. Besides, the beer is weak and she’s seen kids even younger than her drinking it more than once, without any reaction from adults, so she assumes it’s allowed.

She realises she has no idea whether she’s seventeen already. It’s possible. It doesn’t matter.

She feels her throat tightening and she forces herself to drink some of the beer.

She startles when a hand is gently put on her shoulder. She sees Claudia; the woman crouches by her and looks at her with worried eyes.

Ciri smiles at her with tight lips.

“ _I’m fine,”_ she says; it’s another phrase she’s learnt quite quickly.

Claudia makes an inquiring noise, pointing at Ciri’s eyes, now full of tears.

Ciri realises that these people treat her like family. Even with limited communication, she truly is one of them. They are the only reason her stay here is bearable; most of the time, she manages to not think about returning to her world and even though those worries are now threatening to overcome her, these people make her feel like she has a future here.

It’s a rare and very special feeling, this… belonging.

The first time she felt it after a long period of being lost was some time after she had started to live with Geralt and Yen.

_How do I say it?_

She puts the beer on the ground.

“I,” she points at herself, “love,” she makes a heart shape with her hands, “you,” she points at Claudia. Claudia smiles: she understands. “I,” Ciri repeats the first gesture, “love,” again the heart, “this,” she finishes, making a circle with her hand, pointing at the backyard, Jack, Peter and some of the girls that have been watching them spar and are now cramped here, with them. “All of you,” she adds, looking at the kids.

As heartbroken she is in the nights, thinking about her dad, her friends, her world full of people other than humans, of magic, of everything familiar she hasn’t been able to return to yet, she knows she will cry when she’ll leave. She can’t stay here. This isn’t her world. She simply can’t believe her luck she’s found these people.

“ _We,”_ Claudia says, pointing at the people around them, then she adds a word unfamiliar to Ciri, but judging by the heart made with hands it means _to love,_ then adds _“you,”_ pointing at Ciri, and Ciri starts to cry. She feels Claudia’s strong arms around her, engulfing her in a hug.

* * *

In the next week or two, she learns enough of the language to have simple conversations with Claudia, Jack and Peter. Jack starts to express some interest in her beyond simple friendship. She’s only mildly opposed, as Jack has already proven himself to be a good boy with added pleasing aesthetics, but she remembers that she’s in a relationship with a girl that is hopefully waiting for her back home. Ciri and Jack exchange some pecks on the cheek from time to time but nothing more meaningful. They hug sometimes, they play together, but Ciri tries to keep her distance: she doesn’t want to lead him on and then break his heart.

She still runs errands for Claudia’s shop to earn money and be useful, but she adds some self-defence classes for the local girls in the evenings. The girls — all between ten and twelve-year-old — have obvious fun and Ciri’s careful to show and explain her moves. She is afraid at first of the parents’ reaction, but Claudia assures her it’s fine; some parents even add money to Ciri’s daily wages. Ciri’s saving most of it, spending it on necessary things only, like sanitary pads after her very female biology reminds her of itself ten days into her life here.

The men that caused her such panic haven’t shown up again.

She still hasn’t rebuilt her energy for the Jump home. She doesn’t want to risk it, not before she figures out how to aim closer to her world.

She’s not sure what she’s waiting for. This world doesn’t have magic, there are no places of Power for her to use to recharge her “batteries”, no sorceresses to ask for advice. Soon she’ll be expected to leave Claudia’s guest room, probably find a proper job, learn the language faster and settle down on her own.

She’s seventeen, for gods’ sake. She’s more lost than anyone has ever been or imagined. She doesn’t want to stay here, not really. Beyond their little alley, the world is polluted, dark and chaotic. She loves the people she lives among but hates this place as a whole.

* * *

The sun is slowly setting when she walks back from her latest errand. She’s in no hurry; it was raining for the last few days and today it’s the first time the weather is pleasant, so she decides to savour the moment. She keeps her hands in her parka pockets; she’s wearing her old clothes, with the hood of the jacket on her head.

She’s passing a dark alley when she hears a low female voice:

“You got yourself into quite the trouble, didn’t you?”

It takes a second for her to realise that the person is speaking Common. She turns towards the voice, but the woman is hidden in the shadow. She’s about her height; she’s wearing some baggy clothes, a habit or a long dress, obscuring her features; she has a hood on her head, casting an even deeper shadow on her face, but Ciri can see her emerald green eyes — just like her own — shining in the dim light, and there’s a line across her left cheek: a jagged, healed, ugly scar.

Ciri feels a weird tingling of her additional, magical sense. It’s the first time since her first Jump she feels something like this and she has no idea how to interpret it. There’s a certain air of danger around the mysterious woman, but her instinct doesn’t order her to run like it did with the three men outside the shop; it just makes her careful. Ciri has no idea where she knows the voice from: she’s sure she’s never met the woman before.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Someone to help you get back home.”

Ciri swallows thickly, her heart speeds up.

“How?”

“You’ll need this,” the woman says and offers Ciri a clear, bluish crystal in an outstretched, gloved hand.

Ciri takes it and feels the flood of magic energy coming from the crystal to her hand and then all across her body. She shudders and sways on her feet. She more feels than sees that the woman smiles.

“Go back to the shop. Say goodbye to everyone. Give Claudia this, it’s a _thank you_ for her care,” the woman says once Ciri returns to full awareness and puts a small pouch in Ciri’s hand. Ciri can feel several sharp objects through the fabric. Probably precious stones, the most universal currency in the whole universe.

“How do I get back home?” Ciri manages through clenched teeth, fighting vertigo.

“The crystal will direct you someplace safe in your world and time. There, you will find people who will help you. And to Jump there, you need the trance.”

“I’ve never needed the trance to Jump,” Ciri argues, but closes her hands on the crystal and the pouch for Claudia.

“And look where it got you.”

Ciri huffs.

“Please, do exactly as I say,” the woman pleads. “Vizima isn’t safe, you will return to your father in proper time. Don’t try to return home immediately, let the people you’ll meet help you. Everything will be alright if you do.”

“How do you know?”

“I have my ways.”

Ciri purses her lips. She doesn’t want to argue with the woman, but she wouldn’t be herself if she wasn’t a little bit contradictory when ordered around.

“What if I won’t do exactly as you say?” she asks.

"You will because we see each other now, don’t we?"

“What does it mean?”

The woman only smiles.

“Go, Cirilla Fiona Riannon-Haute,” the woman says. “And when you return home, make sure to remember Claudia, because she’s proof that there are unconditionally kind people in the world. You’ll need that reminder later in life.”

“Who are you?” Ciri asks, shaken by her slightly ominous words.

“I’m the Lady of Time and Space,” the woman replies with clear authority in her voice. “It’s time for you to go home, as this city isn’t the space for you.”

Ciri glances at her hands and then she looks back up, the woman is gone. The weird tingling of her magic sense subsides.

She puts the crystal and the pouch in her jacket pockets and drags her feet back to the shop. The circle of little girls is already waiting for her with excitement for their fighting lesson, but Ciri only shakes her head.

“ _No. Sorry. Goodbye,”_ she says and runs into the shop before they can see she’s very close to crying.

Claudia’s upstairs, folding laundry in the main bathroom. Ciri knocks on the door, letting her know she’s back, then she puts the pouch on the table by the door and goes to her room. She doesn’t close the door behind her, she gathers her meagre belongings in a backpack she’s gotten herself some time ago; she digs her savings out of the various hiding places and puts it in plain sight on the bedside table. She takes one coin and puts it in her pocket as a souvenir.

She sits on the bed with her ankles crossed, the backpack between her knees, the crystal in her hand. She stares at it, focusing all her senses on it, including magic.

She feels the change in her awareness just as she notices Claudia showing up at the door, the pouch in hand, the shocked expression on her face.

“ _Ciri, what is it? What does it mean?”_ Claudia asks.

“ _It’s for you. A thank you for your kindness,”_ she replies and she knows it’s far more what she’s usually able to say in the language. _“Say goodbye to everyone from me. I will never forget you,"_ she promises. Her voice is low, tone slightly absent.

Claudia stares at her for a couple of seconds, then she approaches Ciri and puts her hands on her shoulders.

“ _You’re going home,_ ” she says.

“ _Yes,_ ” Ciri replies and her eyes snap to Claudia’s face. Claudia gasps as her touch is enough to open a telepathic link and the woman’s mind is flooded with images of Ciri’s world, the city walls of Vizima, the elves, the dwarves, her father; the monsters, the displays of magic, the forests, the mighty waters of the Yaruga River she still remembers from her childhood in Cintra.

Claudia bears it bravely and moves her hands from Ciri’s shoulders to the sides of her face. She leans in to kiss her forehead gently, but after the initial touch there’s only air between her hands, the smell of ozone, and a clear, bluish crystal lies on the bed where Ciri has just been.

* * *

Ciri lands in an ice-cold sea; the shock of the short fall and the change of temperature knocks the air out of her lungs. Her fingers around the backpack lock tightly; she kicks out to stay on the surface, but her movements are sluggish after the magical journey and her trance.

Just as she thinks she’s about to drown, a strong hand grasps her jacket; she hears shouting and soon she’s dragged on board a small fishing boat. She’s laid on her side as she coughs up the water, the backpack is pried out of her hand.

“Are you okay?” a soft male voice asks in Common.

She turns her head and sees a face of a young man with tanned skin, typical for northerners that spend a lot of time outdoors; he has curly, brown hair, warm, green eyes and a short beard is framing his jawline.

“Hello,” she manages and then her world fades to black.

* * *

She wakes up on a couch, changed into soft sweats and thick woollen socks; she has her own underwear on her. Her clothes and the contents of her backpack lie on the chair by the bed, still drying. She’s practically boiling under the thick eiderdown, so she pushes it back, sits up and looks around.

The room is square and quite large; the couch stands under two tiny windows, the ceiling is made of bare wooden logs, the outer wall is plastered white, the inner walls, separating this room from the rest of the house, are made of bare clay bricks, which give the room a certain cosiness. The furnishings are sparse, simple, but solid and in good condition. It looks very traditional, almost like in a museum, with a fire in the fireplace on one wall — probably the centre of the house, so the smoke can go out through the main chimney — and a deer skull hanging over it.

There’s also a small flat-screen TV facing the couch she’s on and she can hear a washer working somewhere in the house. This is no museum, people live here.

The light behind the windows suggests it’s early evening. When she landed it was daytime, maybe around noon, so she must have slept a few hours.

The same man she saw before she lost consciousness shows up at the door.

“Hello,” he says with a soft smile and leans against the doorframe with his hands deep in his trousers pockets. “How are you feeling?”

“Warm,” Ciri replies with a smile. “Where am I? What day is it? Including the date with the year, please.”

The man raises his eyebrows at her, but he doesn’t comment on her weird request. He saw her appearing out of thin air, he must know there’s magic involved.

“You’re in Lofoten, on Hindarsfjall, Skellige. It’s the 8th Blathe, 1595,” he says. “My name’s Skjall.”

“Oh.”

This being Skellige explains the man’s slightly heavy, melodic accent.

“Ciri, nice to meet you. Thanks for the save,” she replies absently, trying to count how long she’s been gone: over three weeks! She missed her birthday. She’s back into her own time, at least. She has no idea what makes Skellige safe, as she’s never been here, but she reckons the farther from Vizima the better.

“Do you need anything to eat?” Skjall asks.

“Maybe later, thank you,” she replies with a soft smile. “Is there a chance I could call someone on the Continent? Vizima, to be exact,” she asks. “My father.”

“I have to ask my mother, but she’s on duty in Larvik, the nearby town, so she’ll be back tomorrow morning. Is that okay?”

She wants to ask why an adult man needs the permission of his mother to make a phone call, but then she realises a call across the sea is probably expensive, and the household doesn’t look rich. The house is comfortable, clean and warm, but pretty minimalist. The clothes she’s wearing and the ones on Skjall are well worn, too.

She nods.

Skjall smiles.

“I’ll ask her as soon as she’s home, I promise. I’m sure she’ll agree, just, you know. Better ask her than give her the opportunity to complain.”

“I have a feeling she’ll complain anyway, just slightly less than if we’d done it without her consent,” Ciri replies.

“Oh, so you’ve met my mother before?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

She laughs. It’s so good to be “home”.

It takes Ciri about half an hour to fully get her bearings back. At that time Skjall prepares a simple supper, made of fish and potatoes; he also gives her a mug of tea with a splash of something stronger. She glares at him, but he only rolls his eyes at her.

“I don’t intend to get you drunk, you’ll feel better. It’s an old Skellige recipe.”

She scowls. She eats the supper and tries the tea, and it warms her inside pleasantly. She’s not cold, she’s not coughing, so maybe there will be no consequences for her short dip in the icy sea. She reckons people here know how to deal with the unlucky ones like her.

After supper, she asks Skjall for a pencil and a sheet of paper and spends the rest of the evening drawing Claudia: full body, hands on her hips, a smile on her face, with Peter and Jack standing behind her. Ciri hurries so she can get as many details as possible while the memories are fresh; by the time she has to go to sleep, she has a decent piece of art.

But Ciri can’t sleep. She’s slept enough today, and the excitement of a possible call to Geralt tomorrow keeps her awake, along with some worries. It’s the first time she considers the events that lead to her Jumping across the universe. How did people react to her disappearance without a trace? Who were those people in the flat? Was Geralt searching for her? Did he find the people who tried to kidnap her?

Then she remembers the reason she rushed home from school. It’s entirely possible her dad is dead, killed at the station.

But no. She would know. She’s dreamt about him, he was wounded, but he should be recovered by now. He’s fine. They’ll talk tomorrow.

A lone tear falls down her cheek.

And who was the woman who helped her get here? Why did she choose Skellige of all places? The Lady of Time and Space… It sounded important.

Ciri can’t remember why her voice seemed familiar, and she had eyes just like Ciri’s: maybe she’s of Elder Blood, too. As far as Ciri knows, she’s unique with that tiny bit of special elven gene, but who knows: she’s seen how big the universe is. Maybe they’re related somehow.

She tosses and turns on the couch, the eiderdown tangled between her legs. She’s in her underwear and a long t-shirt, as it’s too hot to wear anything else.

The sky outside starts to brighten when someone unlocks the front door and walks inside.

“Mum!” Skjall says in a hushed tone.

“What is it?” an older sounding woman asks, her voice at a normal, conversational volume.

“There’s something I have to tell you, just please, be quiet,” Skjall murmurs and leads his mother deeper into the house.

Ciri can’t hear them from her room, she just catches some snippets, mostly from Skjall’s mother. There’s no argument, though, so Ciri closes her eyes in hope for at least one hour of sleep.

* * *

When Ciri steps out of the room, dressed in her clothes, she immediately bumps into a slim woman in her fifties, with silver hair, hazel eyes and freckles all over her face. The woman stands with her hands low and fingers interlocked: something between crossed arms and open posture. She looks at Ciri, up and down, assessing her.

“Hello, my name’s Ciri,” the girl starts, her voice cracking slightly.

“Yes, hello, my son told me he had an interesting catch yesterday,” the woman replies and smiles, immediately softening her stern features. “I’m Birgitte. Skjall told me you want to call someone on the Continent.”

“Yes, my dad, if you’d allow me, but I have no money and no phone. I’ll find a way to repay you…”

“You went a long way,” Birgitte cuts in. “You fell from the sky.”

Ciri pauses.

“I’ve been gone for weeks, most likely considered missing if not pronounced dead, and I had no way of telling my dad where I was or that I’m alive,” she admits.

Birgitte purses her lips, beckons Ciri to come with her and leads her to a phone on the kitchen wall.

“Call your dad,” she says, her voice soft and warm. “Then we’ll have breakfast and figure out what to do.”

Ciri feels all the tension leave her body.

“Thank you. I’ll repay you once I have any money on me.”

“I’m sure Freya will take care of it. I can’t take money from a lost teenager,” Birgitte says, pats her shoulder and leaves the kitchen.

Ciri watches her go, then takes the receiver and dials Geralt’s mobile phone number.

He picks up after the second signal.

“Yes?”

His voice is hoarser than ever. She knows he’s exhausted even after that one word. That precious voice.

“Dad?”

There’s a sharp inhale.

“Ciri?”

“Yeah,” she replies and she feels tears pooling into her eyes.

“Oh gods, you’re alive. You’re back,” he whispers.

“I Jumped too far, I got lost. I returned yesterday, couldn’t call you before.”

“Oh, fuck,” he murmurs and Ciri can hear some male voices in the background; she recognises Regis. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I swear.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m on Hindarsfjall in Skellige.”

There’s a pause.

“How the hell did you get there?” he asks. “Never mind, it’s perfect. Oh gods, you have no idea how happy I am to hear you.”

She sniffs.

“When can I get back home?” she asks.

“Not yet. I’m going after the people who caused a lot of fucking mess here, you can’t get back until I’m done.” She wants to protest, but he doesn’t let her: “Won’t take long, though. I have friends on Hindarsfjall, they will take care of you. Go find the old druid circle on the island, ask for Mousesack.”

“Mousesack?” she snorts before she can catch herself.

“Or Ermion, he goes by both names. He’s the hierophant there.”

“A druid circle? That sounds a little bit old fashioned…”

“Very few places love their tradition and history more than Skellige, but with the druids, you’ll be harder to find. You’ll be safe there. I’ll call him to let him know you’re coming.”

“Mousesack or Ermion,” she repeats to remember. “Do you trust him?”

“As much as I can under the circumstances. Stay with him. I’ll come to get you once everything calms down here.”

She remembers the words of the Lady of Time and Space. She can’t be contradictory now, not when she has no idea what’s going on at home.

“I promise. I love you, dad. I miss you,” she says.

“I’ll see you soon. Stay safe. I love you.”

She puts down the receiver after the last, heartfelt “bye”. She stands by the phone for almost a minute, her hand still on the receiver.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

“Are you alright?” Skjall asks, peeking into the kitchen.

Ciri wipes the tears off her face, takes a deep breath and turns to him.

“Can you take me to the druid circle?”

Skjall nods solemnly.

* * *

As they walk through the village to the sacred garden of Freya, Ciri takes the opportunity to observe the people and their lifestyle. Lofoten is small, built on a hill and inhabited by the typical lower working-class people, their faces tanned brown, wrinkled and stern. There aren’t many middle-aged people here: there’s a gap between the ages of twenty-five and fifty-five, most people younger or older than that. Most people work as fishermen, hunters or woodworkers; there are next to no cars, only motorbikes, which Skjall explains by the small size of the island and the rough terrain.

“Time stopped here about two hundred years ago,” he admits. She wants to ask why did he stay and not leave like the most of his generation, but that’s probably too personal a question.

Skjall shows her the harbour and their tiny shipyard. She takes a glimpse of the cemetery and the tall, solid gravestones.

The sun is shining, but it seems like Skellige is cold all year round, so even with Ciri’s warm parka she’s chilled pretty soon; Skjall lends her a furry hat.

“You look very charming in it,” he proclaims as Ciri fights with the hat to not fall over her eyes.

Mousesack, also known as Ermion, is waiting for them by the temple when they arrive an hour later. When Geralt told her about Mousesack’s role in society, Ciri imagined an old man with a long beard and long hair, dressed in a robe made of fur and it turns out she was close: Mousesack is a tall man in his late sixties, heavily built, with flaxen hair and beard reaching his chest; although, his robe isn’t long or furry: it’s more of a long tunic made of some material, dyed gold. He also wears black trousers made of thick material, and leather, fur-lined boots.

“You must be Cirilla,” the man says with a shallow bow and warm smile on his sun-tanned face. He keeps his hands in front of him, with fingers interlocked. “I’m Mousesack.”

Ciri nods, unsure what to say.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as necessary. We’ve heard the news about the sorcerer Vilgefortz and the danger he poses to Geralt and his family, we will keep you safe.”

Ciri nods again and glances at Skjall, who stands beside her, head low, chewing on his lower lip.

“What is your name, young man?” Mousesack asks, noticing her look.

“Skjall, sir.”

“Do you wish to stay with Cirilla to keep her company? There are only old men and women at this temple, focused on prayers and tending to the garden, surely a boring company for a young woman.”

Skjall’s head snaps up.

“Would I be allowed to?” he asks with clear hope in his voice.

“Only during the day. At night you’ll have to leave, but be welcome back in the morning.”

Skjall glances at Ciri, who nods with a soft smile. This old man makes her feel uneasy despite his friendly demeanour. Having Skjall with her will make her stay here easier.

“I’d be honoured,” Skjall says to Mousesack, who smiles again, a friendly, fatherly smile, and motions to them to follow him into the garden.

“At the temple, there are some books, but they’re mostly about Freya and gardening,” Mousesack says. “We rarely use modern technology, so no internet surfing for you, Cirilla. Young Skjall can tell you all about Skellige while you’re here and I’m afraid it’s all about the entertainment options.”

Ciri can’t help but smile.

“Please call me Ciri. I’m sure we’ll be fine, I’ve never been to Skellige and I’ll be happy to listen to all the stories.”

She’s sure she’ll die of boredom if it takes more than a few days before she can go back to Geralt, but for now, she promises herself to be on her best behaviour.

They stay in the garden the whole day, hidden in an enclosed gazebo with a small bonfire to keep them warm. A priestess comes by from time to time and gives them food: simple but tasty, warm and filling, made of fish and local vegetables. Skjall turns out to be a skilled storyteller, having seen most of Skellige in his twenty-three years of life, but not as skilled as Mousesack, who joins them in the evening to tell them the story of how he met Geralt thirty years ago.

Mousesack was already a druid, wanting to learn everything he could about the world, so he set on a long journey across the whole Skellige, planning to move to the Continent once he visited every village, every forest, every stream on his native islands. He was especially curious about the witcher who had decided to live for a few years in a secluded village high in the mountains of Undvik.

Mousesack knew who witchers were, but he didn’t connect the fact that a permanent — as it seemed at the time — presence of one could mean there was a lot of work for the monster hunter. As it turned out, Geralt and Mousesack came across each other three times, and every time Geralt had to save Mousesack from a different monster: a cyclops, then some endregas, then harpies. Every time Mousesack assured the witcher that he would have been fine, he had his staff and he was very good with magic, but the witcher reacted with a very doubtful "uh-uh", shook his head and disappeared into the forest, his silver sword covered in monsters’ guts and blood.

Their fourth meeting in two weeks included an ice elemental and after disposing of it, Geralt started a very loud and angry rant at Mousesack about him being prone to get into trouble, using some very vulgar words in the local dialect. Mousesack, taken aback at the beginning, praised the witcher’s fluency in the rare language when Geralt paused to take a breath. That shook Geralt out of his anger and then he just laughed. They went to a local tavern that day, drank to their health and so the friendship was born.

“That is so Geralt,” Ciri laughs.

“Your father is a good man,” Mousesack says warmly. “I owe him a lot, and not only for saving my life four times within two weeks.”

After sunset, Ciri walks with Skjall to the temple: she was assigned a bedroom in the dwelling quarter. Skjall doesn’t enter the temple, just waves at her and turns to leave when there’s a gust of cold wind that blows across the garden and they all shiver. Ciri feels goosebumps rising on her skin and she rubs her shoulders through her coat.

The priestesses stop walking on the paths and also look around, worried.

Ciri realises that this sort of wind is unnatural, even for very windy Skellige.

They hear a thunderclap in the forest growing around the garden, but the sky is clear.

Mousesack runs to them from somewhere in the garden, clearly alarmed.

“A portal made by someone with vile intentions,” he says. Ciri feels all blood leave her face. “You need to leave, now. We’ll try to stop them. Here, take this,” he pushes a small, glowing vial into Ciri’s hands and then turns to Skjall. “You, boy, have to take her to the Isle of Mists. She’ll be the safest there.”

Skjall gulps.

“The sea is calm. You have the firefly, let it guide you,” Mousesack adds and then pushes them towards the garden gates. “Be quick and try to not get noticed.”

“What’s happening?” Ciri asks with rising fear.

“They’re coming for you. Go with Skjall, do as he says. He’ll take you to the place where no-one will hurt you and only your father will be able to find you.”

Ciri wants to protest, but then the sky is suddenly covered by dark, swirling clouds and she can feel her hair rising at the back of her neck.

“May Freya lead you to safety. Now, go,” Mousesack orders, Skjall takes her hand and they run down the road.

Ciri glances behind her, but Mousesack is already gone. Lightning bolts flash every second in the clouds, there are howling and thunderclaps. Her instinct screams at her to run, she knows they’re far from the harbour, she feels chased. The people on the road and in the village run around, scared and confused. She trips, but Skjall manages to hold her upright. The clouds cover the whole sky over the island now; Ciri wants to cry in fear, then she takes a deep breath, squeezes Skjall’s hand and in a blink, they’re at the harbour.

Skjall barely pauses at the display of her power.

“Is that what they want you for?” he asks and leads her to a boat with an engine.

“My things!” she remembers. She left all her possessions in her bedroom at the temple: the clothes she bought in the futuristic city, the coin…

“There’s no time for this,” Skjall says. “If he’s sending you to the Isle of Mists, this is more serious than you can imagine.”

She stares at him and doesn’t argue as he turns on the engine and rushes away from the landing, across the sea, with what seems to be the top speed the little boat is capable of. She holds onto the sides and tries to not look at the clouds over Hindarsfjall. The ride is bumpy, even over the calm sea.

“Will they be okay?” she asks, her voice quivering.

“They’re not just a bunch of old men and women, praying to Freya and growing herbs. They have magic and they won’t hesitate to use it.”

She notices he looks worried, though, but she doesn’t say anything.

They sail across Skellige Sea, Skjall telling her when they’re between Ard and An Skellig, then south of Spikeroog, between small islets. Then, she notices the mountains of another large island, with a tall, ruined tower on a high cape. Here, Skjall slows down and has to manoeuvre between rocks sticking from the sea. He sails towards a high rocky bridge leading to the tower. She can see the thick mist under the bridge.

“Open the vial,” Skjall whispers when they approach the mist. She doesn’t blame him for trying to stay quiet. The mist is eerie, it feels like any louder sound would awaken whatever is hidden in it.

She opens the vial and a small orb of light flies out to the front of the boat. Skjall follows it slowly between the rocks, now hidden in the mist.

Not far from them, behind the bridge, Ciri notices a shore with a wooden landing. Skjall sees it too, purses his lips and steers the boat until they reach it. Then he turns off the engine.

It’s still night, the moon is shining in the clear sky; their journey has taken hours and they feel the tension of every minute spent at sea.

The firefly is waiting for them, hovering over the landing.

“I have to go back or I’ll get in real trouble with my village,” Skjall says. “You follow the firefly wherever it leads you.”

“Why can’t you go with me?”

“I’m not welcome here,” he replies as he helps her to step on the landing.

Ciri squeezes his hand a little tighter—

—then, she sees it.

_An angry mob in a harbour, with two cuffed men — one quite familiar, like she’s seen him in a nightmare — being dragged onboard the waiting prison brig; scared Skjall is standing before a tall, old man bearing the insignia of power: probably the jarl. The mob behind Skjall is chanting and cursing, they’re angry at Skjall because he didn’t help during the battle in the garden, they don’t believe him when he says he was asked to leave._

_Then, a familiar figure of an older man wearing the golden tunic steps from behind the jarl and speaks with his calm voice, full of authority…_

Ciri shakes her head, trying to return to reality. She lets go of Skjall’s hand.

“Ciri?” Skjall inquires with worry written all over his face.

“I’m fine,” she manages to say and smiles at him. “And you’ll be fine, too. There’ll be little trouble, but Mousesack will defend you. You’ve brought me here after all, you’re a hero.”

Skjall just stares at her face for a few seconds.

“Stay safe,” he says. “It was nice meeting you, Ciri.”

He turns on the engine again and backs away from the landing.

“Thank you!” she calls after him. “Thank you for everything!”

Skjall only waves his hand at her, turns the boat and disappears into the mist.

Ciri looks around. The firefly is now waiting for her at the beginning of a path leading uphill.

She can see a silhouette farther up the path: a slim, tall person, probably a woman with long hair.

She feels a wave of calmness descending over her. It’s not hypnotic, she’s sure it’s not an external influence, just her instinct.

She follows the firefly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first world Ciri finds herself in is the second world Geralt has to walk through during the Through Space and Time quest in TW3. The second world is Middle Earth and describes Minas Tirith from “Lord of the Rings”. The machines Ciri sees in the third world are a lancehorn and a watcher from “Horizon: Zero Dawn” game, and the fifth world, where she spends most of the time, is from “Cyberpunk 2077” game — Claudia’s shop is set near the Kabuki Market. The fourth world is entirely made up by me, as I couldn’t recall anything that would serve the purpose of hurting Ciri with its air ;).


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war party goes to the castle...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For future reference, find some good pictures of Ogrodzieniec Castle. It’ll help you when I start describing Vidort ;)  
> EDIT: Ooooh. A year since I posted the first chapter + we crossed the magical line of 100k words. How the hell did that happen I have no idea.

After Geralt’s call to Mousesack to tell him about Ciri, the witcher shows his companions the direction he wants them to go and then almost loses contact with reality, he’s so lost in thought. He walks on autopilot and it’s so obvious that Regis starts to lead him, and Cahir and Milva have to look out for potential dangers. Milva has her bow at hand; they’re all tense like a bowstring, listening to the cursed forest, the creaking of branches, the cawing of crows. Other than that, everything’s quiet, they don’t even dare to talk to each other for a long while.

Geralt starts to regain his senses about half an hour later when Regis decides to finally break some of the tension and provides them with stories and bits of trivia about the area.

“In Fen Carn, for example, a little bit to the southwest, grow high-quality mandrake roots,” he says. “The necropolis is old enough to be devoid of necrophages, so it’s safe. The stone circles and old tombstones are oddly beautiful, you can feel their history in the air.”

“It’s elvish, as far as I know,” Milva adds and asks: “What were you doing there?”

“Looking for high-quality mandrake roots, I’ve told you,” Regis replies mildly. “I used to make mandrake moonshine as a hobby, old cemeteries are the best source for the base material. I even had a shack nearby, I spent a few summers there.”

“Is mandrake really worth it, living in a cemetery? And isn’t it highly poisonous?” Cahir asks.

“For me back then it was worth it; it’s poisonous only if you don’t know how to handle it and don’t have the proper equipment.”

Milva and Cahir glance at each other; Regis pretends not to notice, a soft smile appears on his face at the memory.

By that time Geralt takes over the lead without any comment from his companions. The path is still visible, with crossroads and forks.

“Where are we going?” Milva asks Geralt after a long moment of silence.

“Towards the Chotla River, we’ll find some high ground and camp there for the night.”

“Why the Chotla?”

“It’ll make the rest of the trip south much easier since it’s a straight way from the Chotla to the Ina and we’re sure that Roggeveen is either in Carcano or Vidort. He can’t be holed up in some hideout in the Moors, we would have met Straggen’s men already.”

A crow caws somewhere in the trees.

“We can’t check both ruins, and crossing the Ina close to the ruins will be risky if we make a mistake, we’ll be in the open,” Cahir observes. “We need to know where he is exactly, long before that.”

“Agreed. I hope we’ll find out somehow when we get closer.”

They keep walking, taking short breaks every few hours to sit down and eat something from their rations. They don’t bother to start a fire before they find a place to set camp for the night, and that’s planned for much later. The ground is wet, the paths become fainter and fainter, so under the thick canopy of trees Geralt has to rely on his enhanced senses to see where to go.

They reach the river fairly quickly and from then on their route is indeed easier, the shore is low, sandy or with only grass growing by the water. Geralt takes the silver sword out of his bag, puts the harness on so the blade is on his back and warns his human companions to keep as far away from the water as possible, but they don’t notice any danger and the river is calm. Whatever splashing they can hear ahead, quickly quietens as they approach.

After some time, Geralt dares to light a cigarette, making sure the smoke doesn’t blow towards Cahir and Milva, and Regis continues with his stories, this time staying away from the topics of cemeteries and mandrake.

* * *

There’s a murder of crows sitting on the walls of the highest of the three remaining towers of Vidort, cawing from time to time, observing their master.

Vilgefortz is standing on top of the tower, looking around with his new eyes. It’s the first time he’s climbed so high; it’s probably the last. Usually, he stayed indoors, barely stepping outside the inner gate those few times he left his cave under the keep.

To the south, not far from the castle’s outer walls, flows the great Yaruga River, wider even than the Pontar this far inland. To the east, on the other side of the Ina river, is Carcano, the other of the twin ruins. Among the constant buzz of Vidort’s magic, he can now feel Carcano’s influence. The river apparently blocks most of the shield’s power from Carcano, so the magic he’s not protected from doesn’t hurt him, it’s just a tingling sensation at the back of his head.

To the north, Vilgefortz can see Mealybug Moors, covered in a thin sheen of mist. He knows the man who intends to kill him will come from that direction. He won’t do anything to stop him now. He’s made him angry enough, and soon will make him even angrier, probably. “The angrier the better,” Gaunter O’Dimm likes to say. Haute will be fuming with barely contained rage when he gets here if all goes well.

To the west, he can see Turlough Hills, a barren land right at the edge of the magic’s influence. Beyond that, he knows, is the Kingdom of Brugge.

He hears steps behind his back and easily recognises Straggen’s gait.

“Everything’s confirmed on Hindarsfjall,” Straggen says. “Do you want me to call Rience? He wants to go after the Nilfgaardian.”

“I know he does, but he needs to be patient. He’ll be more useful on Skellige. Tell him to go there at night, grab the girl and portal straight here when he’s done. I’d prefer if he’d done this quietly, but if he kills everyone on that island, that’s fine by me. Too bad nobody here cares about Skellige, I’d love to put the blame on Haute for that, too.”

When Straggen doesn’t reply, Vilgefortz turns and finds him looking over the edge of the tower into the keep: the main building is so ruined it doesn’t have roofs anymore; they use it for storage. There’s also a kitchen for Straggen’s men, who live mostly in tents in the largest bailey of the fortress, to the southeast of the keep.

“Speaking of grabbing a girl?” Vilgefortz inquires.

Straggen only purses his lips.

“Should I keep my fingers crossed Rience does better than you?”

Straggen still doesn’t reply.

“You brought here how many people? Thirty? The fact that you still haven’t found one girl who can’t even leave this place is astounding. This level of security doesn’t make me feel safe, you know.”

“We’ll find her,” Straggen growls.

“She’s not important,“ Vilgefortz snaps. “Focus on the general security of this place, so Haute and his merry band of heroes don’t march in here and kill us one by one.“

Straggen, still fuming, nods.

“By the way, do you want the website to go up again? Or do we give up on it?” he asks.

“Have it prepared. I might have something tasty for it to publish later.”

Straggen turns and goes downstairs.

Vilgefortz glances at the crows sitting on the wall next to him.

“Thank you, dears,” he coos. “Let me know if you find anything new.”

One of the crows caws and the whole murder flies away to the north.

* * *

Meanwhile, Angoulême sits huddled under the wall of the eastern tower and eats some of the bread and sausage she managed to steal from the kitchen four days ago, and they still haven’t gone stale. She doesn’t complain; she suspects the magic of this place keeps food from spoiling.

She knows that Roggeveen is waiting for someone to come fight him. The hope of being free is the only thing that keeps her fighting — or rather staying low and alive. Last week has been hell and she has no idea how much longer she can keep doing this. She knows that if Roggeveen wanted to find her, all he had to do was ask his crows, but he doesn’t care about her, so it’s up to Straggen’s minions and they’re doing a very lousy job.

“Please, hurry,” she murmurs into space and hugs her knees, thinking about the man Roggeveen hates with all his might. She sees Mealybug Moors over the wall and thinks of how getting there, into that dangerous land, would be her biggest dream coming true. She wants to get away from Vidort. She wants a proper warm meal: not bread, sausage, cheese or apple she’s managed to steal. She wants a bed and clean clothes, not to sleep curled under a bush, waking every hour, afraid she’s been found. She wants a bath, she hasn’t had one in over a week.

“Please, please, hurry,” she sobs and hides her face in her arms, the stump of her left little finger aching with phantom pain.

* * *

The weather is so pleasant that anywhere else it would be easy to forget their grim mission. But not here: in the Moors, they’re constantly reminded of the danger by the sounds of the forest, so different than in Brokilon. Brokilon can be quiet when there’s no wind, although that happens rarely; here there’s a constant creaking, cawing, splashing, even some panting and howling, but no birdsong. The Moors are alive and unwelcoming. The sounds become louder as the sun slowly moves towards the western horizon, but no usual inhabitant of the area causes them any trouble.

“For a place known for its monsters, it’s suspiciously calm here,” Cahir observes after a while.

“Do not jinx it, damnit,” Milva snaps.

“There could be multiple reasons for that,” Regis starts. “We know now that the magic of this place is changing, maybe it’s making the monsters sleep or run away, or they’re waiting for something.”

“Or maybe there’s just someone who is almost a natural deterrent against most monsters,” Geralt adds, casting a glance at Regis. Regis rolls his eyes at him, Milva frowns but doesn’t comment.

Geralt’s ringtone takes them by surprise.

“The trinket from Triss is still working, I take it,” Regis murmurs.

Geralt shoots him a level look and accepts the call from an unlisted number.

“I hear you’re on your way,” he hears.

“Roggeveen,” Geralt seethes. The rest of the group stops in shock. Geralt doesn’t notice and keeps walking; his companions rush to join him a few seconds later. “I hear you’re waiting for me.”

“Yes, very impatiently. All this sitting in a bog, dealing with stupid people, signing off my soul to a demon, and I’ve done it all for you.”

“Bombing my workplace and flat, killing some of my very close friends, and then the regicide was also for me?”

“I wanted you to not forget about me. You know I admire your accomplishments.”

“You know I don’t admire yours. I wouldn’t forget you no matter what.”

“Aww, I’m blushing. Do you at least respect what I’m capable of?”

Geralt pauses when he’s hit with a question that rings in his head every time he focuses on the circumstances of Roggeveen’s escape.

“Speaking of respect, why did you kill Adon Carre differently than the others?“ he asks.

“Who?”

“When you escaped, Rience burned everyone. You broke Adon Carre’s neck first.”

“I can’t recall any person of that name.”

“Yeah, you can,” Geralt snaps. “Did you kill him fast because he respected you?”

“You don’t need me to tell you that. You have your answer.”

Geralt purses his lips and glances at his friends, all watching him with varying degrees of worry on their faces.

“Why are you calling me?” he asks.

“I was just wondering how you’re dealing with what has happened to your daughter. All alone in the big dangerous universe, soon she’ll lose her father and won’t even know…”

Geralt feels his anger flare, then takes a deep breath and lets icy calm descend over him.

“Are you trying to wind me up? No need. You gave me such motivation I won’t limit myself to killing you, I will burn you and whatever’s left of your empire to the ground.”

The call is cut.

Geralt stares at the screen for a few seconds, then puts his phone in his jacket pocket and starts to walk again along the riverbank. Regis doesn’t say anything but starts walking next to Geralt, keeping his hand on Geralt’s back, providing silent support.

Cahir and Milva exchange glances and stay a step or two behind them.

They walk in continued silence, slightly heavier than before the phone call; they walk almost until sunset when they finally find a slightly higher ground close to the river. They’ve met some monsters on their way, mostly drowners, easily taken care of by Geralt while Regis stayed with Cahir and Milva. A leshen and a fiend Geralt’s heard howling deeper in the forest ignored them.

After they set up camp for the night, they don’t bother hunting: they still have energy bars that are supposed to last them at least two more days. They only take care to have wood for the bonfire. When they’re settled, Geralt sets up a wide Yrden trap around their camp.

They watch the sunset in silence, the sky painted red, with scattered clouds coming from the south.

“I’d say something about this, but I won’t,” Milva murmurs, as mesmerised by the sight as the rest of them.

“Good,” Cahir replies.

Geralt smirks.

The mood lifts; they’re sitting around the bonfire, trying to not think about tomorrow. They share stories again: Milva asks Geralt about his past with Brokilon, Regis recalls some of his travels, Cahir tells them about Vicovaro and they immediately realise how much he misses it. Milva shares the story about how she bought her aircraft and shyly confirms Geralt’s suspicions: she doesn’t have a pilot’s license or proper training, and it’s the reason she won’t fly at night. Cahir opens his mouth to protest but doesn’t get the chance.

“It’s a little bit too late for that, isn’t it?” Regis points out gently.

Geralt snickers.

“You should get some sleep, petty humans,” he says lightly. “You both need it the most. I’ll stand guard, Regis will replace me three hours before dawn.”

“You don’t need to sleep?” Milva asks as she stretches. They don’t have any proper beddings, so the only insulation from the cold and moist ground are their jackets and blankets they took from her aircraft.

“I’m a witcher, I can do without for a few days, and Regis doesn’t sleep at all.”

“Why not?” Cahir asks.

“Because, as we’ve already established, I’m a non-human,” Regis says.

“But what does it mean? You look human, Geralt not-so-subtly suggests that monsters are scared of you…” Milva starts to count out.

“And your shadow is weirdly distorted,” Cahir cuts in.

Milva pauses and looks at Regis’ shadow, cast by the bonfire’s light. It’s fuzzy at the edges.

And lacks the head.

Regis smiles at them, for the first time showing his teeth, or rather fangs.

Both humans sit on their spots, frozen in shock. Then, both of them simultaneously turn to Geralt, who is shaking in silent laughter.

“Yep, that’s right, I’m the monster hunter in a relationship with my potential prey,” he says. “Should tell you how dangerous he is to you.”

That deflates Milva and Cahir a little.

“Now I can’t help but wonder how you two met,” Milva says.

They’re distracted by a howl, louder than before, among the trees, not far from them.

Milva pales; she glances at the unsheathed silver sword, lying on the ground within an easy reach of Geralt’s right hand, with the gun — loaded with silver bullets — right next to it.

“Magic is holding them back,” Regis murmurs.

“Or you,” Geralt replies with a glance at him.

“I doubt my species affiliation has that much of an impact on the creatures here, especially if they’re influenced by Roggeveen.”

“I don’t think Roggeveen himself directs them, he doesn’t have that much power.”

“What about magic from Vidort and Carcano? How do they influence this whole area and how do Roggeveen and Rience manage to control it?” Regis asks.

“Must’ve taken some time,” Geralt admits. “The whole process is, ironically, very easy, all it takes to create protective trinkets is just pay some attention, thanks to the type of magic.”

“What do you mean?” Cahir asks.

“You know the stories. It’s suspected the magic comes from two corrupted places of Power under both Vidort and Carcano, but it’s magic just like anywhere else, so if you want, you can study it and read its frequency. Get some proper equipment and you can make trinkets to keep you safe, just like Triss and Philippa did,” he replies and shows them the amulet he got from the sorceresses in Razwan. “It’s easy to manipulate, too, once you have access to it, which explains the recent changes in the shield. It also means that getting close to the places of Power with some protection should be easy enough to either destroy them or clear the magic.”

“It would be very ironic if it was so easy,” Regis observes. “The shield is very strong, the influence of the magic was felt even as far as Dillingen.”

Geralt frowns.

“We’ve met there, I don’t remember feeling the magic…” he says. He knows why Regis is mentioning Dillingen: he tries to redirect the conversation back to the topic started by Milva.

“You weren’t really in a state for detecting something so subtle. Still, it was there,” Regis replies.

Milva and Cahir visibly perk up.

Geralt and Regis glance at each other, knowing the mild story would lighten the mood.

“Ah, yes, I was the charity case,” Geralt says. “How long ago? Over twenty years? Before the Edict. And the striga.”

And so the story flows about the wounded witcher, seeking medical help in Dillingen twenty-five years ago, having barely any money to feed himself, spending most of his funds on bullets for monster hunting. The contract had been easy in theory, but if you’re running on low fuel, even a nest of drowners can be difficult to destroy. He’d ended up with more wounds than he could deal with on his own, but he hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital, so someone had sent him to a local surgeon, who had tended to “sorry cases” like him.

The surgeon, named Emiel Regis — a thin, pale man with black, unruly hair and black eyes — patched him up, considering his witcher metabolism, and asked only for Geralt to visit him next time he was in Dillingen, no other payment required for the treatment.

Geralt kept his word and visited Regis the next year. His life had gotten better by that time: after a couple of bigger contracts he’d fulfilled without getting hurt too much he was able to buy some better clothes and a more reliable gun. Him dropping by Dillingen was purely social.

Regis, on the other hand, was in the middle of the process of moving out.

Geralt stayed in town for a week. They saw each other every day during that week and found out they liked each other’s company very much.

Geralt had no reason to suspect that Regis was anything but human.

Due to Geralt’s lifestyle and Regis’ moving around, their friendship was mostly a long-distance one. They wrote letters to each other, they met every few months and both hoped their relationship would become something more than just a friendship. It lasted three years; then Geralt got a contract on a vampire in Nazair and found out that the crypt he had been pointed to by his employer was occupied by Regis: as it turned out, the only higher vampire in the area.

They quickly established that Regis hadn’t killed anybody, another monster had. Geralt hunted the real culprit, then turned away from Regis and promised himself to never look back, angry that he hadn’t worked out Regis’ species sooner, before he got attached, before he started to hope.

He wasn’t even angry that Regis was a vampire; he was disappointed he’d been lied to about something so important for so long and by someone he’d trusted and cared about.

It was Regis who reached out to him in the end, fifteen years later. He came to Vizima, having been shunned from every place he had tried to settle in. One day, he was waiting for Geralt outside the police station in the Temple Quarter, looking like he was barely holding onto life. After staring at Regis for two solid minutes, Geralt took Regis to the Chameleon, introduced him to his friends and got him a room there, so the man could rest.

And then Geralt vouched for Regis at the magistrate, so he could settle in Vizima, in the open society which accepted non-humans without reservation. Regis found a job at the local hospital without trouble.

He was the first person Geralt went to after his divorce.

Geralt could have gone on a bender with his witcher brothers, but he needed something else, something only Regis was able to provide, something he missed for fifteen years and then denied himself for five more even though it was right within his reach.

* * *

Geralt’s companions are snoring softly as he’s tending to the fire, still keeping his weapons at hand, but no one attacks them throughout the night. The night is calm. The calm before the storm, he knows.

He shifts uncomfortably. During their trip through the Moors, he didn’t pay much attention to his back pain, but now it hits ferociously, his second night spent not in a comfortable bed and now with all the moisture around. He knows his body, though: adrenaline will soon make the whole issue unimportant. He still takes Aglaïs’ medicine, so the pain is the only inconvenience. He still remembers the numbness in his arms and legs after two days in prison and he doesn’t want to repeat the experience, not now. At least he’s already forgotten the wounds Roggeveen inflicted on him in Gors Velen.

His phone, set on silent, buzzes in his jacket pocket. He takes it out and looks at the screen: Mousesack.

“We’ve been attacked,” the druid says before Geralt even has the chance to greet him. “Your daughter is safe, of course. We’ve learnt something that will probably interest you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The man you’re looking for is in the castle named Vidort.”

Geralt stills.

“Before you ask, we’ve learnt that from two of the three individuals who decided to pay us a very unfriendly visit. They were very open once we persuaded them to cooperate. One of them is a half-elf, the other would fit nicely into our sailor teams of old.”

“What has happened to the third individual?” Geralt asks slowly.

“Portalled away, unfortunately.”

So, Rience escaped, but Shirrú and Bonhart are currently in the druids’ custody.

He’s not going to ask how Mousesack got the information from his captives; he knows they didn’t give it voluntarily.

“By the way, our attackers put up a serious fight. I had to send your daughter away, but she’s in the safest place possible. You’ve heard of it, the one with an entrance under the stone bridge of Undvik.”

 _The Isle of Mists,_ Geralt knows. The place is both legendary and very real. Some Skellige legends say that the newcomers are taken care of by Freya herself; others put the Lady of the Lake in her place. The welcome you get once landing there — as the access is only by the sea — depends on your intentions. If you seek protection, you’ll get it. If you have ill intentions, you’ll be dealt with in a very unpleasant way. If you’re just curious about it, there’s no way of telling what you’ll see and where you’ll end up.

It does exist. Sorcerers and scientists who tried to study the place from the Undvik entrance claim that it’s one of many gateways to a different dimension. It always leads somewhere else, no-one gets the same experience. It’s possible to return from there, but the exit can be anywhere in the world.

It all means that Geralt can’t go looking for Ciri under the Undvik stone bridge, because there’s a high risk he not only won’t find her but will get lost there. Whoever is the guardian of the place, they will have to lead Geralt to Ciri, and when and where will that happen? There’s no way of telling.

“What are you going to do with your newest guests?” Geralt asks.

“Treat them as we always treat the most dangerous criminals and traitors. Why? Do you need them for anything?”

That means being left cuffed to a rock out in the sea or working in some deep mine of Ard Skellig or Undvik ‘till the end of days. Slow and very unpleasant death, in both cases. He’s not sorry for Shirrú and Bonhart.

“No, unless they have anything else to say, you do whatever you want with them,” he says.

“Geralt,” Mousesack says softly, “you know how it works. You’ll find her at the proper time.”

“Only when I’m not looking, yeah, I know. But how do I not look for her? When this whole affair is over, she will be all that will matter.”

“I have faith, Geralt. I know you don’t, but I’m sure you’ll find her, safe and sound, and soon.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Geralt says.

“She had to leave her possessions behind, text me the address I should send them to.”

“Will do. Thank you for everything.”

Geralt ends the call and texts Mousesack the Chameleon’s address.

When he puts the phone back in his pocket, he looks up and sees Regis’ eyes shining in the darkness.

Regis gets up and sits on the log next to Geralt.

“They went after Ciri,” Geralt murmurs and glances at Cahir, asleep under a blanket close to the bonfire. “How did they know? I doubt O’Dimm told Roggeveen, he said he didn’t work for him anymore.”

There’s a caw in the treetop above them.

“That’s your answer,” Regis replies just as quietly and points at the tree. “Plenty of them around here, they probably listened to your conversation with Ciri. Crows like to serve wicked people and are easy to control.”

“What about ravens?” Geralt smirks.

“They prefer intelligence over wickedness. No risk of them serving you.”

“Haha.”

Regis smirks at him. He doesn’t tell Geralt to get some sleep, and it’s fine for Geralt, because sitting here, next to his partner, watching the flames, is all he wants to do now.

* * *

Cahir and Milva wake up to the smell of herbal tea. Geralt is mixing something powdery, black and grey on a stone about a metre from the bonfire, and drinking from a small, foldable cup, and Regis is tending to a small copper kettle hanging over the bonfire.

“Where did it come from?” Cahir asks, yawning, and waves his hand at the kettle.

“My cavernous bag,” Regis replies. “You carry weapons and clothes, I have space for some practical—”

“More or less,” Geralt murmurs, pouring the powder to a leather pouch and tying it securely with a string.

“—items,” Regis finishes with a glare directed at Geralt. The witcher only slurps his tea, looking at him over the rim of the cup.

Regis offers a cup to Cahir, who takes it with hesitation and sniffs it.

“It’s not my tea if that’s what’s worrying you,” Geralt says and reaches for his bag. “It’s good, I’d be drinking it, too, if I wasn’t mutated. Together with some energy bars, it should keep you going for hours.”

Geralt throws two energy bars at Cahir and Milva each; Regis gives Milva a cup of his tea, thus emptying the kettle.

Milva sniffs it, too, then makes an appreciative noise and takes a sip.

“I know these herbs,” she admits, seeing Cahir’s inquiring look. “They’re a great energy boost.”

Cahir takes a sip and grimaces: it leaves a bitter aftertaste.

As it turns out, Regis also has some dried meat in his pack, so they eat and drink in silence, watching the sunrise.

Ten minutes later they’re cleaning up their little camp.

“I think we’re maybe five hours walk from our destination, so we need a plan of action,” Geralt says.

“Now we’re a true war party,” Milva murmurs.

Geralt turns to her.

“I need you to go back to the aircraft and try to fix it. If you run, you’ll be there at about the same time we reach Roggeveen.”

Milva’s face turns red in agitation.

“Don’t try to protect me, I know how to fight!” she protests.

“I’m not protecting you, because I’m sending you there alone,” Geralt says. “Your bow and slingshot would be very useful to us, but we’ll need transport when it’s all over, and I don’t think getting back to your ‘little wings’ on foot will be a good idea. We can’t assume we’ll be in any state to do that.”

Milva takes a deep breath. The grim perspective of all of them wounded is enough to calm her down.

“I know for sure that Roggeveen is in Vidort, the ruins on the western bank of the Ina, right where it flows into the Yaruga,” Geralt continues. “The magic of this place, the way it affects the whole area, must be a form of a curse placed upon the place of Power under the castle, which means it’s something that can be lifted.”

“Why has no-one thought about dealing with it before?” Cahir asks.

“The only people interested in it are sorcerers and for them it’s unbearable, they can’t get close unless they’re prepared. Witchers could have done it, but nobody cared enough to hire them, since the place’s abandoned,” Geralt says. “The Yaruga blocks the magic, so Cintra and Upper Sodden aren’t affected.”

“Geralt, the curse is very old and probably very complex,” Regis warns. “It can’t be that people just let the magic destroy the area because nobody took some effort to lift the curse.”

“But that’s how humanity works and you know that: there’s nothing to gain by lifting the curse. It’s still doable. Probably easier than we think.”

They take in all the information.

“So, Milva,” Geralt starts and gives her a gun: the smaller of the two he has, and two clips with silver bullets. “Getting back to the aircraft should be easier than walking here. If you encounter any monsters, just shoot them in the head and run as fast as you can, don’t look back until you’re out of the Moors. If we manage to destroy the source of the magic, you should feel it, it shouldn’t affect the engine anymore. Fly straight to Vidort as soon as you fix the aircraft. As far as I know, there are fields around it, so you should find a place to land.”

“Noted,” Milva replies and takes the gun with a grimace. Cahir reckons that she hates this sort of weapon, but he doesn’t think she has anything affecting monsters in her usual arsenal.

“We’ll meet you there,” Geralt says.

She looks into his eyes.

“You better,” she grinds out, takes her bag, turns and starts to jog, then run in the direction they came from yesterday.

They watch her disappear among the trees.

“Do you want me to keep an eye on her?” Regis asks quietly.

Geralt purses his lips.

“We’ll need you back in three hours at most.”

Regis looks at him, nods, then, to Cahir’s astonishment, he turns into a grey fog and flies into the air, following Milva.

“Let’s go,” Geralt says and he and Cahir set out to the south, weapons at the ready.

* * *

Vilgefortz is meditating in his magic circle in the middle of the cave, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes closed. Rience is pacing like a caged animal by the table, fuming. Straggen’s men’s calls on the surface echo in the cave, he can hear barked orders, even some construction across the castle. 

“A few old, peaceful men, they said,” Rience murmurs. “There will be next to no resistance. You surprise them, grab the girl and portal out.”

“Who told you that?” Vilgefortz asks, irritated by the constant babbling.

“Bonhart,” Rience admits.

“And now he’s dead or dying, cuffed to a rock far away from the safe shore, probably with his limbs broken, so he can’t swim back if he gets out of the chains. Should tell you whether or not you should have listened to him.”

“Bit late for that,” Rience seethes.

“True,” Vilgefortz says as he opens his eyes and stands up, the movement fluid and full of grace. “Also, your passion for being flashy probably worked against you. Doesn’t matter. Haute is on his way anyway. You can go greet him if you want.”

“With pleasure. What about his companions?”

“Two men, most likely. He’s sent the woman away, probably back to the aircraft. Straggen’s men saw it land, they’ll welcome her as warmly as we will our guests.”

Rience smiles like a predator, anticipating the fight that is coming to them: three men against thirty mercenaries and two sorcerers. This is going to be fun, hopefully one that won’t end too soon before they’re done.

* * *

Regis looks relieved when he finds Geralt and Cahir three hours after he left them, walking an old, overgrown, unused road at a brisk pace, shoulder to shoulder, their steps synchronised, Geralt’s doubts about Cahir’s loyalty already forgotten.

What Regis doesn’t know is that the two men had an honest conversation soon after Regis had left them.

“I’m sorry about your colleagues at the station,” Cahir said after a while of tense silence. “I wish I could’ve done something more to help you.”

“You’ve done enough. Besides, you already apologised in Murky Waters.”

“I was trying to stay alive then,” Cahir smirked and then turned serious again, “now, I really am sorry.”

Geralt glanced at him, into his tired, haunted eyes, too old for a man his age.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “You must not have expected the warmest of welcomes from me, though.”

“Still, that gun barrel under my chin was surprising,” Cahir admitted with a true smile reappearing on his face. “Looking at it from your perspective, it was more than I deserved.”

“The photos were the only reason I didn’t kill you on the spot. Glad I was right.”

“So, we’re fine?”

Geralt nodded.

“Yeah, we’re fine. We both have to get out of a pile of shit dropped on us by Roggeveen and Rience. It’s as a good start to being as fine as possible under the circumstances.”

By the time Regis joins them, waving his hand dismissively at Geralt’s concerns about Milva’s safety, Cahir and Geralt feel like they’re a part of one team. It’s no longer “Geralt and the idiots who decided to join him on a suicide mission”, they’re a “war party”.

Four hours after they set off from their last camp, they see Vidort’s keep for the first time between the treetops, the falling walls built from white limestone. The ground is uneven, with little hills and valleys, so they quickly lose it from sight, but when Geralt glances at his companions, he sees a new determination on their faces.

They’re close. Soon the whole mess will be over.

They step into the bushes growing alongside the road. Mealybug Moors are now behind them; Geralt’s glad he didn’t have to cut their way through the monsters living there, as he needs his strength.

They look through their bags to get rid of things they won’t need. Regis leaves his foldable mugs and kettles; they all change into fresh dark clothes that won’t obscure their movements, Geralt puts on his trusty black beanie, Geralt and Cahir check their weapons and put bullet clips in as many pockets as they can. Geralt gives him two clips with magic-resistant bullets; they also put on bulletproof vests. Regis sorts through their clothes and other non-essential equipment, bundles it in one bag and hides it deep under the bushes. Geralt, who had to remove his sword harness earlier to change his clothes, unsheathes his silver sword and looks at it for three seconds, wondering what to do with it, then sheaths it again and puts the harness back on.

“Won’t need it, but I can’t leave it here,” he murmurs at Cahir’s questioning look.

Cahir glances at Regis, dressed in black, loose clothes and black trainers, so unlike the collected and respectable surgeon he’s seen so far.

“You don’t have to arm up?” he asks.

Geralt and Regis glance at each other.

“No,” Regis replies calmly.

“He’s the weapon if he puts enough thought into it,” Geralt adds.

“Don’t startle,” Regis says to Cahir and smiles, showing his teeth, now slightly longer than before.

Geralt gives them two energy bars each; they eat, breathe deeply and don’t talk.

A crow caws somewhere above them.

“Oh, you little messenger,” Regis murmurs as he finds the bird among the tree branches. “Tell him we’re coming.”

“What?” Cahir asks.

“Sometimes, sorcerers can control animals. We believe the crows here serve Roggeveen,” Geralt explains.

Cahir exhales slowly.

“So, how do we do this?” he asks.

“When we reach the castle, you and I will stay together,” Geralt replies in a hushed tone. “Regis can handle himself. We need to find the place of Power and destroy whatever is corrupting it. We can safely assume the castle is full of Straggen’s men, so we have to eliminate them one by one, preferably quietly. Roggeveen is, of course, our main target. What plays on our side is they’ll try to keep me alive until Roggeveen can get to me, as he has to kill me himself. We’ll work on the details once we’re closer and can see possible entry points.”

Cahir and Regis nod. They step out of the bushes and continue walking, preparing themselves mentally for the incoming hours.

Vidort’s looming on the horizon, closer and closer as they pass a small hill after another. The ground becomes flatter the closer they get. Geralt stops from time to time and focuses his senses, looking for a possible ambush, but it seems that Straggen’s men are all inside the ruins.

About a kilometre from the castle, the road turns slightly and when they pass the curve, they see three men blocking the road: one of them, standing in the middle, has a magical shield around him, the others have automatic rifles aimed at them.

“Rience,” Geralt hisses.

Rience smiles, one of his hands is up, a ball of fire prepared to be thrown.

“Long time no see,” the sorcerer replies.

“I’ve heard you had fun in Skellige last night,” Geralt says and whips out his gun to aim at Rience.

Rience’s face turns murderous for a brief second before the smugness returns to his face.

“And what are you going to do with that?” he asks, nodding at the gun. “I still have my little tricks from Vizima’s Royal Cas—”

Geralt pulls the trigger before Rience can finish.

The magic-resistant bullet shatters the shield around Rience. A small red dot appears in the middle of Rience’s forehead and the man falls on his back, unmoving, a look of shock frozen on his face, eyes wide open.

His men pull their triggers, but by that time both Geralt and Cahir ducked to the side and Regis has disappeared into a grey fog that now circles around the two men and then descends on them; they fall to the ground with a yelp. When Regis rematerialises in his fully human form, there are three dead bodies with blood pooling under them.

Geralt and Cahir come to stand over Rience’s body.

“Bit anticlimactic for an asshole like him,” Cahir comments. This time, he doesn’t pale at the sight of the corpse.

Geralt only shrugs, takes a photo of the body with his phone and motions for his companions to continue walking.

* * *

Milva has no idea how she managed to run for five hours. Well, maybe not run the whole time, but she’s definitely out of breath when she catches the first sight of her aircraft, still parked in the middle of the field, right where she’s landed it.

She’s about five hundred metres from it when her magic orb, hidden in her pocket, starts to warm up and glow. She falls into the tall grass and creeps closer to the aircraft.

Around it stand five men, clearly irritated that they can’t get close, as Geralt’s Yrden is still active and zaps them with electricity every time they try to cross it.

“Aw, shucks,” Milva sighs and creeps even closer, close enough to hear their conversation.

“Heard one of the woodland whores flies something like this?” one of them says.

“Nah, they don’t like human technology,” the other replies.

“Especially after a few of them tasted it in the form of a bullet, thanks to me,” the third says.

Milva freezes in the tall grass, then slowly, deliberately, takes her long package off her back. She opens it and takes out the compound bow and five arrows.

“Oh, hello, birdies, aren’t you a little bit too far from your nest?” she murmurs, a cold smile on her face.

She knows who these men are. They’re Straggen’s, and apparently among them is the man who’s killed her friends.

She nocks an arrow and draws the bow, aiming at one of the men. She releases the arrow while still hidden in the grass.

The man falls, dead, the arrow protruding from his eye.

The remaining four men scatter around the aircraft, one of them gets zapped on the Yrden and he yelps. He lets out the second yelp as he falls with an arrow in his heart.

“Two down, three to go,” Milva murmurs and nocks another arrow. She doesn’t feel remorse about killing them: any dryad would do the same, despite their general respect for life. They would kill anyone who threatens them: that’s how they’ve convinced the world that Brokilon is out of bounds.

And these men certainly do not bring anything good into the world.

Another man falls, an arrow deep in his ear. Milva wants to stroke her bow: the foldable collection of pulleys and strings is very handy and very effective. The dryads’ best work, adjusted especially for her.

One of the men tries to circle to get behind her, but he’s not crouching low enough and he’s as loud as a running horse. He dies without making a sound, for once.

The last one is hiding behind the wheel of her aircraft. She can’t shoot him from where she is now, and she won’t have the cover of the tall grass if she decides to come closer to him.

A shot rings out in the silence and a bullet wheezes past her ear. She rolls to the side, puts her bow on her back and prepares the slingshot.

“You bitch!” the man shouts. “Show yourself!”

She creeps around the plane, still in the grass, silent as a dryad, the slingshot with a stone in her hand, ready for the throw.

“Wanna play fair?!” the man calls.

“As if you do,” Milva murmurs, rolls out of the grass, careful to not land on her bow, shoots the man from the slingshot to put him to the ground and finishes him off with an arrow.

Then, she checks the bodies for signs of life — a force of habit, she knew they were dead right after they dropped — and the area for more adversaries, but it’s quiet. She puts the bow back in its case and approaches the aircraft.

“I really hope this trap works just like Geralt promised,” she murmurs and crosses the faint, purple line on the ground.

No zaps. She lets out a big sigh of relief, runs to the cockpit, opens it and takes out her toolbox from behind the seats.

Time to get to work.

* * *

Geralt can see that Cahir is glancing at Regis more often as they approach the ruins. Geralt doesn’t have to look at his partner to know that Regis slowly turns into his vampiric form, with a gaunt face, pointy ears, flat nose, long fangs and even longer claws. He also doesn’t talk anymore.

The closer they get to the castle, the bigger it seems to them. It’s large, built on top of a high hill, with wide, walled bailey, the four levels of the keep on its northern-west corner, emerging from a group of limestone rocks, with three towers and a smaller bailey adjacent to it. Before it fell into ruin it must have been impressive: it still is, but it’s only a reminder of its former glory. Together with Carcano, Vidort was an important strategic point, protecting Sodden from the south and serving as the last stopping point before travellers or merchants sailed farther inland, towards Lyria and Rivia.

The main gate is on the northern wall, east to the keep, facing northwest. A road from the river leads to it, the whole area between the castle and the Ina cleared of trees and in plain sight from the keep.

Geralt leads his war party towards the western wall: trees are growing close to it and the poor condition of the wall promises them a breach they can use to slip in. There are a few guards outside the walls; most of Straggen’s men stay inside the castle, with one or two men on each tower, but none on the walls.

Geralt silently curses the fact it’s daytime, but they can’t wait for the night. Regis is almost shaking with anticipation, Geralt wants blood, too, and Cahir looks like he’s about to snap. The only thing that helps them is the overcast sky. Geralt isn’t sure how much of his back pain is due to two nights spent outdoors and how much of the possible rain, but his rising adrenaline levels seem to make it fade for now, just as he thought.

They don’t find a proper gateway until they almost circle the castle from the south; they had to pass two gates, one in the southwestern wall, the other in the southeastern, as they were too heavily guarded, but they managed to see how cluttered the main bailey is with tents and crates. When they reach a group of tall rocks at the easternmost end of the bailey, not far from the second gate, they climb up and then jump down into the bailey.

The guns stay behind Geralt’s and Cahir’s belts; for now, they’re armed with knives and daggers.

Geralt nods to Regis, who nods back, turns into fog and flies away along the northern wall and close to the ground. Geralt and Cahir creep along the western wall, hidden in the bushes. They manage to slip by the guards that prevented them from entering the castle through the gateway; they creep by another gateway and head towards the keep.

So far, they are undetected, creeping along the wall, choking or dealing a knife to the heart to every man that poses a threat of rising an alarm. They’re moving in tandem, watching each other’s backs, understanding their next move without really communicating.

It doesn’t take long before they’re right by the keep, still undetected, having left a trail of bodies among the bushes and crates in the bailey. Some of the men they left behind alive are now finding the bodies, but their shouts in alarm are quickly interrupted by pained yelps.

Geralt and Cahir see a hollow in the inner bailey wall and just as they’re about to get there, a small figure runs out and right into them, only to stop three steps away.

Geralt whips out his gun and aims at the person, but they — she — only raise her hands, shaking like a leaf, her mouth open as if to scream.

She’s about twenty, with dirty blond hair and hazel eyes. She’s undernourished and underslept; she’s dressed in what used to be a t-shirt and jeans, but her clothes are almost falling apart now, full of tears and holes.

The little finger of her left hand is missing, healed into a stump.

Geralt lowers his gun.

“So it was your finger,” he says.

The young woman lowers her hands slightly.

“What?” she asks, confused.

“They’ve sent me a little left finger, trying to make me think it was my daughter’s. It was yours.”

“You’re not one of them? You’re here to get rid of them?” she asks with a soft Cintran accent, softer than Ciri’s.

Geralt nods.

He can hear Cahir move away behind his back, then there’s a short thump and the Vicovarian returns to his side without a word.

Their body count has just increased.

“Why are you here?” Geralt asks the woman.

“I used to work for Straggen. Roggeveen bound me somehow to this place, I can’t leave, and believe me, I really want to,” she replies, lowering her hands to her sides, as relaxed as she can be under the circumstances. Geralt’s sure they’re the first friendly faces she’s seen for weeks, probably since she got here.

“What’s your name?”

“Angoulême.”

“Sorry for the finger.”

“You weren’t the one who cut it. Listen, the entrance to Roggeveen’s cave is in the keep’s wall, right over there,” she says and points to a dark hole they haven’t noticed before. “It’s one of many, less populated. The main entrance is by the bridge, but you don’t want to go there without automatic weapons.”

Geralt nods.

“Have you seen anything that looks like a place of Power? It’s usually an obelisk or a circle of them, with runes,” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s down there, too,” she points at the tunnel she showed them earlier.

“Thanks. Here, have this,” Geralt says as he takes off his harness with the sword. “Hide somewhere and keep it safe for me, alright? We’ll get you out of here.”

Angoulême takes the sheath in both hands, looking at it with awe.

“Club someone to the head with it if you have to,” Geralt suggests with a soft smile.

She returns the smile, nods and ducks under the bushes by the wall.

Geralt glances at Cahir.

“The place of Power,” the man says. Dealing with it first will make beating Roggeveen slightly easier: they can expect the waves of magical power, making spellcasting risky. Geralt is shielded from the magic, but he doesn’t want to risk drawing his Signs, at least not yet.

Geralt nods, looks around and catches a glimpse of Regis’ fog as it flies along the walls, up to the towers and down to the inner bailey.

They reach the tunnel; it’s leading steeply down, long and winding, the floor cut into steps, with multiple hollows and crates along the walls. There’s no light; it’s high enough to walk inside comfortably, but Cahir and Geralt still move crouched, fast and silent like ghosts.

Geralt is at the lead, taking them where he can feel the magic comes from.

At the end of the corridor, a large cave opens. There are no places to hide from the five men armed with automatic guns, guarding a large, purple crystal, lying on a dais made of a roughly cut obelisk.

Geralt and Cahir exchange glances, hidden behind large crates on two sides of the entrance. Geralt can see that Cahir is squinting, and he guesses that the man feels the influence of the corrupted magic, most likely in a form of headache, flashes of light in the eyes or some ringing in the ears. Almost every human is susceptible to this kind of effect; he can feel some of it, too, but not as much as the general population.

He also notices that the guards have medallions hanging on their chests, probably protecting them from the magic.

Geralt and Cahir glance at each other again and take out their guns. The silent approach time is over.

Cahir aims to the right, Geralt to the left: two guards for Cahir, three for Geralt.

 _Three, two, one,_ Geralt counts down on his fingers, then aims and pulls the trigger at the same time as Cahir. The guards fall in the deafening noise of the shots; Geralt runs from his hiding spot to the obelisk, throws the leather pouch he made this morning, so the silver shards and gunpowder contained inside cover the crystal, then he fires his gun at it.

The force of the explosion throws him against the cave wall. He manages to not get hit on the head, but the impact makes his back pain flare and it takes him too long to get back to his feet.

He can hear another gunshot and he turns fast enough to see a body of another guard falling to the floor a few steps behind his back and Cahir still aiming his gun at the body. Closer to the cave entrance, yet another man approaches behind Cahir’s back. Before Geralt can warn his companion, the guard shoots Cahir and the man falls to the ground, clutching his side and groaning. The guard aims his gun at Cahir’s head; Geralt kills the guard with a single shot.

He runs to Cahir, turns him onto his back and checks the wound.

It’s bleeding profusely, the guard shot through the bulletproof vest. Cahir is groaning in pain, trying to stifle his moans by breathing through clenched teeth.

“Shit,” Geralt murmurs, grabs Cahir under his armpits and drags him back into the corridor, to one of the side corridors. There, hidden behind a crate, Geralt tears off the sleeve of Cahir’s shirt and packs the wound.

“What a lame death,” Cahir murmurs.

“Shut up,” Geralt hisses, “you’ll be fine.”

As if to contradict his words, the blood starts seeping between his fingers, so he tears off the other sleeve, tears it to rags and starts wrapping it around Cahir’s stomach, but then he changes his mind and takes a small pouch from his jacket pocket. Inside is a tiny bundle of herbs.

“Traditional medicine is the best on the battlefield,” he says as he presses the herbs to the wound, making Cahir groan again. “Stop it, crybaby. Be happy I didn’t make you eat it.”

“So happy,” Cahir replies, looking at Geralt with glassy eyes. “You’re right, I’ll be fine. Go get the fucker.”

It’s only now that Geralt feels it: waves of Power coming from the broken crystal every few seconds. There is a cracking sound and even from their hideout Geralt can see the ceiling of the cave breaking. The corridor above them looks stable, but Geralt would love to draw Quen over Cahir and he can’t risk it now. He can’t even take him outside.

“I’ll come back for you,” he says to Cahir, looks at him and sees the man is already unconscious.

* * *

The first wave of magic reaches Milva like a gust of strong wind, making the aircraft wobble. She’s still busy fixing it, and the blow makes her drop the tool she’s been using. Something hits the still active Yrden which breaks right after that.

It takes a few seconds for Milva to realise what’s happening.

“Whoa! So far so good,” she murmurs. She picks up the tool and returns to fixing the engine; it’s going to be easier now, as the magic influence over the area is about to disappear or at least diminish.

She can’t help but wonder if the rest of the plan will go as they wanted.

* * *

The wave reaches as far as Razwan. Philippa and Triss look up from the computer screen they’ve been focused on when their magic senses flare up and then go down to the normal level.

It happens again five seconds later, and again, and again…

The screen blinks with every flare.

“Geralt destroyed the source of the shield,” Triss says.

“You’re telling me that they figured it out? How?”

Triss looks at her, her eyes serious.

“Don’t ever underestimate a century-old, pissed off witcher.”

* * *

Geralt quickly finds Roggeveen’s cave: it’s huge, with a table and a kitchen; the bedroom is separated from the rest of the space by a folding-screen. Geralt doesn’t notice anything resembling a bathroom, but he doesn’t care about that. The cave’s brightly lit only over the furniture, the rest is dim, especially near the walls. There’s a magical circle drawn in chalk in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the stone circle.

Roggeveen is sitting cross-legged in the chalk circle. Around him stand Straggen and eight of his men, armed with automatic guns.

“Long time no see, Geralt Haute!” Roggeveen calls.

Geralt, hidden behind the corner, feels a slight breeze and sees the grey fog flying towards him from the corridor; Regis materialises right next to him, all pointy ears, flat nose and long fangs. His clothes are torn, but Regis isn’t even out of breath.

“You alright?” Geralt asks.

There’s a worrying glee in Regis’ black eyes.

“Never better,” the vampire replies.

“Be careful with him,” Geralt nods at Roggeveen.

“He can’t kill me.”

“Not permanently, no, but I’d prefer to not wait fifty years before you knit yourself back together.”

Regis smiles, fangs visible.

“I’ll leave him for you,” he promises, turns into the fog and flies into the room.

Geralt goes in right after, gun blazing at Straggen and his men, wanting to leave Roggeveen for last. Even the magic shield the sorcerer cast around himself wouldn’t help Roggeveen, but all Geralt wants to do now is get rid of the distractions.

Together with Regis, they put down three men, hiding between the cave wall and the stone circle, when Roggeveen shouts out a spell and a huge chunk of the ceiling falls, right where Regis has just materialised to kill another man.

It’s like time has slowed down: Geralt watches the rock crush both Regis and his would-be victim. When the dust settles, he can see Regis’ foot sticking out from under the rock, unmoving.

He feels a wave of cold run down his body.

“Don’t kill him,” he hears Roggeveen’s order. He touches the medallion from Triss and jumps into the shadow behind one of the circle rocks.

“What the fuck?” one of the remaining men asks.

Geralt still feels the waves of Power, although they become weaker with every gust. He runs along the wall, touching the medallion from time to time, especially before he gets out of the shadow to try to off the men, mostly by cutting their throats with his hunting knife. He moves like a ghost, on light feet, doesn’t stop for even a second, he falls on the unsuspecting men, distracted and confused by the illusion created by the medallion: his image appears in the last place he touched it, seconds after he’s gone. He changes directions, there’s no pattern to it, and the shadows under the cave walls are deep enough for him to hide there, in his dark clothes and the black beanie covering his hair.

Soon, the numbers are down to three: Geralt against Roggeveen and Straggen.

Regis’ foot twitches.

Geralt touches the medallion, steps from behind the rock and throws his knife at Straggen as he and Roggeveen are looking in the opposite direction: the man falls to the ground, the knife in his cervical spine. Geralt runs behind another rock and touches the medallion again, armed with his gun.

“Congratulations, but I’m tired of this!” Roggeveen calls out as another weak wave of magic passes them. He shouts out a spell and a strong blow of air makes Geralt fall against the wall, losing the gun. Roggeveen moves like a viper: in the time Geralt needs to get his bearings back, he runs past Straggen’s body, grabs Geralt’s gun from the floor and jumps at him. Geralt dodges his fist and hits him to the face with his elbow.

Roggeveen yelps and takes two steps back, letting go of the gun; Geralt grabs it, but as he tries to aim it at Roggeveen, the sorcerer gets to him and slashes Geralt’s wrist with Geralt’s knife, taken from Straggen’s body.

Geralt drops the gun again; it slides five metres away from them.

They both jump towards it, but it’s Roggeveen who grabs it first and uses it to hit Geralt’s face. Geralt dodges again, grabs Roggeveen by the lapels and pushes him onto one of the circle rocks, the gun between them, aimed low.

Roggeveen pulls the trigger; Geralt barely feels the pain. He grabs Roggeveen’s hand with the gun with one hand and hits his stomach with the other. Roggeveen’s legs bend under him as he gasps, but he doesn’t let go of the weapon.

It’s between them now, aimed up, the barrel between their faces, Roggeveen’s hand still on it, the finger still on the trigger. Geralt grabs it so his finger is on top of Roggeveen’s.

They’re standing nose to nose, the emerald, magic eyes staring into the golden, cat ones. Roggeveen doesn’t have eyelids, the skin around the crystals that now pose for his eyes is still scarred with old burns, giving the sorcerer a disturbing look.

The gun barrel moves slowly, too slowly, under Roggeveen’s chin. He’s resisting with all his might, but Geralt, even though he’s tired, is also really, truly angry, so he’s determined and full of adrenaline.

The gun is just about to fire—

Geralt deals Roggeveen one last kick to the groin—

— and BANG.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next Friday for the last chapter ;). You're very welcome to scream at me.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences.  
> See what I did here?

It takes Milva four hours to fix her aircraft and then reach Vidort. She flies straight over the Moors with her heart in her mouth, using the Chotla and then the Ina river as her guides; the engine is stuttering from time to time, but it doesn’t die, although the stuttering gets worse when she tries to cross the Ina to its eastern side, so she makes sure she’s flying only west to the river. She almost cries with relief when she sees the two ruins and the Yaruga River right beyond them.

She’s in a hurry for reasons unknown to her; she feels like she needs to get to the rest of her “war party” as soon as possible or something bad will happen, she’ll miss something: she’s not sure.

As she circles Vidort looking for a spot to land, she notices that nobody moves in the ruins; bodies are lying by the walls and between the tents.

Milva manages to land her aircraft comfortably close to the ruins, on the flat plains between the castle and the Ina. It’s only a quick run to the northern gate; soon, she steps into the castle and takes her bow off her back.

The bodies look like they’re sleeping, although a lot of them lie in very uncomfortable positions. There’s little blood, no internal organs in sight. It’s still a massacre, but it could have been much worse.

She knows she won’t find her friends among them.

Crows are sitting on the walls, tents and crates all over the place, but they don’t caw, they just watch her as she steps between the bodies, her bow at the ready, the arrow nocked.

The silence is deafening.

She creeps towards the keep, up the bridge. She’s close to the gate when a noise makes her turn and aim at the source: a nook in the wall below the bridge.

It’s a young woman, pale, with beads of sweat on her forehead, her hands shaking. She’s holding a long, slim, dark object in her right hand.

“Don’t shoot!” the woman yelps, raising her hands, waving the object around.

“Who are you?” Milva asks sharply.

“A finger donor, you?” the woman replies, showing a healed stump of her left little finger.

Milva frowns.

“That’s Geralt’s sword,” she says, nodding at the object in the woman’s hand.

“Oh, so you know the guy who came to kill Roggeveen? Here, take it.”

The woman runs up the bridge and throws the sword towards Milva’s hands. Milva, still aiming her bow at her, takes a step back and the sheath falls onto the ground. That makes the woman pause, then rub her sweaty hands on her jeans, clearly uncomfortable.

“He gave it to me for safekeeping, but you’ll be better suited for that job if you know him,” she says, her voice breaking a little.

“What’s your name?” Milva asks.

“Angoulême. Yours?”

“Milva,” she replies and lowers the bow. She takes the sheath, slings the harness over her shoulder, with the sword on her back. “Do you know where Geralt is?”

“He went downstairs. I can take you there.”

Angoulême leads Milva back from the bridge into a tunnel.

“Do you know what’s happened here?” Milva asks, quietly, so her voice doesn’t echo within the stone walls.

“They came in and killed everybody, one by one,” Angoulême replies just as quietly, but she becomes increasingly agitated, breathing harshly, too fast. “I’ve met only the guy with the sword, Geralt you say is his name? Another guy was with him. I have no idea who the third person was. They’ve done something and the magic broke, I was trapped here before, I think I can leave now, but your friend gave me his sword and I didn’t want to, you know, just leave it lying somewhere for anyone to find. It looks expensive.”

Angoulême takes a deep breath.

“It’s been awfully quiet for some time, now,” she admits softly. “I hope they’re okay. The first thing this Geralt guy did was apologise to me for losing the finger. It wasn’t his fault, really. He seems decent.”

“He is,” Milva admits as they descend further down the tunnel. She wonders whether Angoulême usually talks this much.

She can feel the last weak waves of magic coming from a side tunnel. It’s nothing compared to the first gust she felt by her aircraft, but the place of Power is still active, though dying.

Angoulême takes them to Roggeveen’s cave. It doesn’t take long for them to find the “war party”.

Regis is sitting propped up against one of the stones that form a circle at the centre of the cave; he’s paler than usual, his eyes look glossy as if he’s drugged, but he’s conscious and smiles with pursed lips at Milva and Angoulême.

Cahir’s there, too, lying on his back on a blanket next to Regis, unconscious, his stomach wrapped in multiple layers of cloth. His breathing is laboured, but stable.

Geralt is standing over one of the bodies lying on the floor, a few metres from Cahir and Regis, with his back to the entrance. His hands are covered in blood; he’s smoking a cigarette, taking deep drags and blowing the smoke through his nose.

“Roggeveen,” Angoulême gasps as she recognises the body.

“So it’s over,” Milva says as she approaches Geralt cautiously like she’s dealing with a wild animal. “He’s gone.”

“Yeah,” Geralt replies. His voice is drier than usual. He drops the cigarette stub on the floor and extinguishes it with the sole of his boot, still staring at Roggeveen’s body. “Time to go back to Vizima. All of us.”

“You mean her, too?” Milva asks, pointing at Angoulême. She doesn’t want to look at the body, at the bloody mess that’s left of Roggeveen’s skull.

Geralt nods after a glance at the young woman, who remains at the entrance, as far from the bodies as possible.

“Do I need to remind you I can fly with only three passengers?” Milva continues. “Where am I supposed to put that one, on the wing?”

“Who says I’m going to Vizima?” Angoulême protests. “And what do you mean, fly?”

There’s a soft rustle and a grunt from where Regis and Cahir are.

Geralt smiles at Milva and Angoulême, a tiny, tired smile.

“Cahir and I will stay here, as we’re the only ones officially involved with the case,” Geralt says. “We have to wait for law enforcement. It’ll be better if they don’t know about your and Regis’ involvement in the whole case.”

By that time Regis joins them, keeping his hand on his ribs and limping. He uses his free hand to lean against Geralt; Geralt starts to support him with his hand around Regis’ waist.

“As for you, Angoulême,” he continues, “we could use you as a witness, but we won’t force you. You can go wherever you want, but if you don’t have anywhere specific to go, we have friends in Vizima able to help you, give you a fresh start.”

Angoulême stares at them.

“Can I think about it on the way there?” she asks.

“Sure,” Geralt says with a shrug. Angoulême nods. “Good. Go. Safe flight.”

“Will we see each other again?” Milva asks as she returns the sword to Geralt, who simply slings the harness over his shoulder.

Regis is now hiding his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck and sways with exhaustion. He’s not sniffing for blood, it’s just intimate, being as close as possible. Geralt rubs his back absently with his free hand.

“Not anytime soon,” he replies.

“Why not? Are they going to arrest you or something?”

“Probably not, but wrapping up this case is going to take some time. Now go. And thank you for everything.”

Milva nods and turns away, so she doesn’t feel like she’s invading Geralt’s and Regis’ privacy as they hug and whisper something to each other’s ears, now able to focus only on each other, even for a few short minutes. She can wait for Regis outside.

* * *

After Geralt sends Philippa and Triss the text from Vidort, they open a portal together, so it’s more stable. When they step out of the fiery ring into a large bailey, they catch sight of a small aircraft flying away to the north.

They follow the trail of bodies down the tunnel under the ruins and to the cave. Geralt is sitting beside Cahir aep Ceallach cross-legged, hands lying on his knees, watching them calmly. His face, hands and side are covered in blood, but he doesn’t look like he needs urgent medical attention: his witcher mutations probably took care of his wounds already.

“He’s wounded,” Geralt says, pointing at Cahir. Triss checks Cahir’s wound in his side and then casts a minor healing spell. The younger man groans and then opens his eyes, which shine with pain.

“You’ll be fine,” Triss says and then turns to Geralt, who is now watching her, eyes tired, pupils round.

“Roggeveen’s out there,” he says, more croaks, really; he points at the body on the cave floor not far from them.

“Damn it,” they hear Philippa grumble. “Processing this will take weeks.”

“I haven’t touched anything after it was done,” Geralt says.

“Great. I suggest you, Triss, take these two idiots back to Vizima and portal in some reinforcements, starting with Eskel Garde and possibly Bernard Ducat, at least I know I can trust them,” Philippa says.

Cahir sits up with a groan; Geralt stands up with him, helping him to his feet. Geralt has to take the most of his weight, as the man is barely standing.

“Come on, Nilfgaardian, time to face the music,” Geralt says.

“I’m not Nilfgaardian,” Cahir grumbles and Geralt chuckles.

“Would’ve fooled me.”

Triss smirks and starts to cast the spell; Philippa joins her and the three of them step through the portal right to the front of the new Vizima Police station in the Royal Quarter.

* * *

_News of the day: Vilgefortz Roggeveen, the sorcerer who’d set up a human trafficking ring, who escaped the convoy to Novigrad thirty-one days ago, was found dead under the ruins of Vidort Castle in Lower Sodden. Evidence indicates he committed suicide during the confrontation with Vizima Police detective Geralt Haute, who was the arresting officer during Roggeveen’s first apprehension in Gors Velen in Yule._

_Evidence gathered after his escape suggests his indirect, but substantial involvement with King Foltest’s assassination._

_The Royal Court issued a statement that the Temerian borders will be opened as soon as possible, most likely within a few days._

* * *

_I HAVE ISSUES WITH ALL OF THIS._

_Firstly, they can’t stop the freedom of speech, no matter how hard they try! Yes, we’re back._

_Secondly, the circumstances around Foltest’s assassination. The initial suspect, Geralt Haute, works for the Police, as we all know. I wasn’t surprised at all that they’ve found an eyewitness of the King’s murder who cleared Haute. Why it took them two whole days, I have no idea. Does it really take that long for a law abiding citizen to help law enforcement officers if they saw a murder?_

_I could fabricate a testimony much sooner than that._

_Haute’s connections to Roggeveen are astounding. Yes, I understand Vilgefortz Roggeveen was_ problematic, _but can we talk about the man who arrested him in Gors Velen, and who then was found right beside him after he committed suicide with Haute’s frickin’ gun? By what miracle is it even considered a suicide?? Looks more like a cover-up._

_And have you heard this?_

[Press Play] ‘You gave me such motivation I will burn you and whatever’s left of your empire to the ground.’

_It was posted without context, we don’t know who Haute was talking to when he spoke those threats, but… are we sure that he wasn’t a part of the King’s assassination plan? Plus, those massacres at Blaviken and Rinde? Do you see the pattern? It’s said that the bloodbath in Vidort was even bigger than Blaviken. Who is he, the judge and the executioner? He’s a murderer. Do we really want this man to work as a policeman in our city? Is he safe to be roaming the streets freely? Some people claim that he keeps the city safe from monsters, but maybe he’s just another monster for the city to be protected from._

* * *

_Can I say something as a simple Vizimian who just can’t help and watch the news?_

_Sure, some of it sounded shady, but the police released the full version of that conversation shortly after that one sentence was revealed. One sentence out of context can’t say anything about a man’s character, but we know Haute was talking to Roggeveen then. Threatening him was justified, I’d say._

_Geralt Haute served the city for sixteen years, they say. He kept it safe as a witcher and a policeman. Obviously, he was framed for the King’s assassination. His actions in Vidort were justified — I don’t believe it would be possible to put Vilgefortz Roggeveen on trial. I can’t understand why people want to get rid of Geralt Haute now. He’s not going on a rampage against civilians, and that rogue sorcerer couldn’t have been dealt with any other way. It’s brutal, yes, Haute’s made mistakes in the past and I’m sure he’s made amends since then. He’s not another monster. It will be very unfair if they punish him for anything that he’s done ever since Vilgefortz Roggeveen escaped. You all need to stop listening to conspiracy theories._

* * *

While the law enforcement is working on finishing the case, Geralt is holed up in a safe house outside Vizima. Geralt hasn’t gone crazy only thanks to Regis’ ability to sneak in through the air vents to cuddle and bring some news from their friends.

Being left alone most of the time gives Geralt the opportunity to have unpleasant second thoughts.

“Do you ever think about how we just went in and murdered everyone?” he asks four days after their return to Vizima as he and Regis are lying on the bed, with Regis draped across his chest, Geralt absently playing with his hair. Regis has recovered from almost all of his ribs being broken under the rock. Geralt already forgot about his gunshot wound and the slash to his wrist. “We should have left at least someone unconscious, but no, we slaughtered what, thirty? Forty people?”

“Are you doubting your actions now?” Regis asks as he raises his head and looks into Geralt’s eyes. They’re both growing their beards out: Geralt’s been too lazy to shave since the day Cahir came to Vizima with Milva, Regis grows his in support since Vidort. A full beard will look good on him, Geralt has to admit. For now, it’s just stubble, still distinguishable from his sideburns. “You know they’d kill you without remorse if they got the chance.”

“We’re supposed to be better than them, and yet it didn’t even occur to us,” Geralt argues.

“Maybe it was Vidort’s magic.”

“Why do you think so? I’m immune.”

“I talked to Milva. She said Straggen’s men had been waiting for her by the aircraft, after you’d sent her away. She shot them all and only on our way back to Vizima did she realise she’d murdered five people. They would’ve killed her if she hadn’t, but still. We all have blood on our hands.”

Geralt wants to disagree, but then he remembers Regis’ glee in the castle. Regis hates killing, yet in Vidort he became even more of a killing machine than Geralt. At least Regis was able to control himself much better than Geralt expected.

After their arrival to Vizima, Cahir was put somewhere else. He and Geralt haven’t talked since the Attorney General’s office put them in their respective hideouts, the same day they returned from Vidort.

The opened borders are the cause of the police’s and the Royals’ dismay, and for good reason, as some people start to disappear: police officers, some low-ranking Royals agents, some politicians. Usually, soon after that, the investigators uncover the files connecting them to Roggeveen or his illegal activities.

The highest-ranking traitor among the Royals was Hardal Gielas, who turned out to be the source of information about the convoy from Gors Velen to Novigrad; he wasn’t involved in setting up the convoy, but he was high-ranking enough to be able to leak the information. Also, a vague connection between Jan Asper and someone in the Nilfgaardian Intelligence was uncovered, explaining Cahir’s trouble in Razwan.

Shirrú was caught on CCTV recordings around the dead guard’s flat. Bonhart was caught on footage in Mayena with a long package slung over his shoulder, most likely containing a sniper rifle.

After the last leak on Roggeveen’s website and subsequent release of the full recording of the phone conversation between Geralt and Roggeveen — because Geralt recorded that, too — the site is finally taken down for good and the admin arrested.

Geralt knows all this mainly thanks to the meetings with Olgierd von Everec in the hideout every two or three days. While having all this information relied by Vernon Roche, who has returned to the city to help wrap up the case, would be easier for everyone, Geralt expressed mild disdain at the mention of his name, so Olgierd agreed to go to these meetings because they could also serve at taking testimonies from Geralt. Roche is handling Cahir, very carefully and by the book.

Geralt doesn’t talk much about the events in Vidort, he’s more open about the search for Roggeveen’s hideout and associates. His role in the massacre at the ruins remains vague, especially when the investigators notice that most of the men died at hands of something very non-human.

Geralt knows Rience’s body was found and he has to admit that he shot the rogue sorcerer without remorse.

The most important thing is that the last fingerprints on the gun that killed Roggeveen belonged to the sorcerer. Geralt doesn’t comment on the suicide theory.

Geralt is also told that a week into the investigation a written testimony arrived at Olgierd’s office, claiming that Geralt was in no way involved in the planning of the King’s assassination and that Roggeveen became a part of the plot shortly after his escape to incriminate Geralt and cause chaos in Temeria. The testimony was signed by Gaunter O’Dimm, who also admitted to his direct participation in the act.

Geralt purses his lips when Olgierd finishes relating the news. They’re sitting in the living room, Olgierd with a coffee, Geralt with his tea, Olgierd’s assistant standing vigil in the hallway. The hideout has two guards, but they’re outside. Geralt can’t help but wonder what they’re for because they couldn’t stop him from escaping if he wanted to leave and Geralt can defend himself fine, thank you very much. It’s protocol, he’s sure.

“O’Dimm suddenly appeared in the papers as a minor member of Roggeveen’s legal team,” Olgierd says. “My question is, why would he help you if he was working for Roggeveen? I thought we established he was some dark force or something.”

“I didn’t have a deal with him if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yet he decided to help you.”

“I didn’t explicitly agree to anything.”

“But you talked to him,” Olgierd argues.

“Yeah, he started,” Geralt replies and tells Olgierd about the meeting in the Moors.

Olgierd stares at Geralt for a few seconds with his intense, pale eyes.

“If Roggeveen committed suicide, why did O’Dimm send this testimony? How did you ‘deliver Roggeveen’s soul’ to him?” he asks slowly.

“I was there when Roggeveen died.”

Olgierd blinks and then sighs.

“I think we’re ready to wrap up,” he says. “In a few days, we’ll all meet a judge in the courthouse, with aep Ceallach. I know of some noblewoman willing to lend you her lawyer and I think you should accept. This thing is such a pile of shit that there should be someone to do some of the thinking for you. You can’t use Keira Metz as she represents the Police.”

“Someone wants to invest in defending me?”

“Countess Anna Kameny. It’s not the first time she wants to be involved in your mess.”

“I won’t say no this time.”

“Good. See you soon.”

* * *

Geralt leaves the safehouse for the first time ten days after he was brought there. A car with tinted windows, a driver and a guard take him to the courthouse. As they approach the building, Geralt can see the havoc Roggeveen caused in the society: there’s a protest outside the main entrance, people demanding he’s arrested and put in prison. For what exactly, he doesn’t know. Geralt knows it’s unlikely to happen, but it also shows that his return to normal life is virtually impossible. He’s not surprised.

He’s wearing a borrowed suit; he activates Keira’s trinket to change his appearance and one of the guards lends him his sunglasses, so Geralt can hide his eyes. There are no protesters in the garage, so Geralt and one guard can go upstairs without trouble.

He’s led not into the courtroom, but one of the conference rooms. It’s large enough to fit a large number of interested parties: his — or rather Anna Kameny’s — lawyer is here, Triss, Philippa, Dijkstra, Vernon Roche and Thaler; Cahir is sitting next to the spot that Geralt’s shown, with his own lawyer on the other side; there’s Henry var Attre, the Nilfgaardian ambassador, making Geralt realise he has no idea what was happening on Cahir’s side of events during the last ten days.

There’s also, of course, the judge, one that Geralt hasn’t met before. When all the people present are introduced, Geralt finds out that the judge, Agneta Torquil, came from Maribor to ensure a neutral verdict.

What comes next is predictably boring and lasts hours. Geralt doesn’t learn anything new about his side of events: he was at the centre of the case, he knows what was happening the whole time.

What is interesting is Cahir’s testimony of his involvement with Rience. Geralt learns a lot of details of the Vicovarian’s hard work and risks taken to redeem himself within the Nilfgaardian Intelligence after he fell into disgrace five years ago. Geralt, when asked, admits that Cahir’s contribution to the case was essential with the photos he sent and his list of contacts, not to mention the final action in Vidort.

The readings and discussions last the whole day, with some breaks. Thanks to soundproof windows they can’t hear the crowd outside, but during the adjournment, Geralt can watch them, gathered on the street with banners and drums, chanting.

Triss passes him a paper mug when she joins him by the window. When he takes a sip, he’s surprised to discover it’s his usual tea.

“There was still something in the cupboard in the station’s kitchen,” she says at his questioning look. Then, she looks out the window, at the crowd. “It’s unfair.”

“It’s not unexpected with all the juicy and, unfortunately, true info Roggeveen released about me. Complicates my life a little, but with Ciri safe, for the time being, I can figure something out,” he replies and drinks more of the tea.

Triss looks at him.

“You’re thinking about leaving Vizima,” she realises.

Geralt shrugs.

“Not right away, there are a few things to consider, including Ciri.”

“Life on the Path was easier that way, wasn’t it?” Triss sighs. “Nothing to hold you down, nothing to consider…”

“Simple, yeah,” he admits. “Too exciting at times. I’m too old to be that free anymore.”

“You like being anchored in place and bored?” Triss smiles.

“More than you know,” he replies, still serious.

Triss purses her lips.

“Listen, thanks to your efforts at making friendships, you have people you can ask for advice. Like with your lawyer, let them do some of the thinking,” she says. “Not me, obviously, but, you know. I know an inn run by people who’d love to voice their opinions about your life. Remember that. You’re not alone. You’ve been working on that for the last twenty odd years.”

Geralt looks at her and she smiles at him softly.

It’s one of those rare moments when she’s just a friend. Not a working partner, not a former lover or a sorceress, but a friend.

He nods and turns back towards the window.

A chime rings throughout the corridors.

“We have to go back,” Triss says and touches his shoulder gently.

* * *

Geralt admits before the court that a lot of bodies in Vidort were of his making. Cahir decides to share the blame. They both are silent as a grave when they’re asked about the non-human-inflicted wounds.

It turns out that Angoulême decided to share some information, too. In a letter, true, but signed and with an attached DNA sample, so it can be compared with the finger; Geralt wonders whether Regis had something to do with taking the swab from her. She described some of Straggen’s operations and whatever she could hear from her prison in Roggeveen’s cave. She didn’t disclose her current whereabouts and she refused in advance to show up in court. Her letter is still listed as valid testimony.

They leave the court in the evening, the case closed, no charges against Geralt, with Cahir aep Ceallach reinstated as a member of the Nilfgaardian Intelligence. Geralt is astonished how quickly the case is wrapped up. There are no congratulations though: the case was long, tiring and gruesome, so they just want to go home. Geralt thanks his lawyer, shakes hands with Philippa, Triss and Thaler, nods to Roche and Dijkstra. When he looks around for Cahir, he’s nowhere in sight.

In the courthouse’s bathroom, Geralt changes into his less formal clothes brought by one of the guards from the safehouse and returns the suit and the sunglasses.

The police orders the crowd outside to disperse. Geralt activates the trinket from Keira to change his appearance before he leaves the courthouse; no-one bothers him on the way.

Outside, on the other side of the street, Regis is waiting for him. Geralt comes to him and they hug, hidden in the shadow of the building.

“Come. Let us see our friends,” Regis says and leads Geralt to his car.

They meet their usual circle in the Chameleon: Dandelion is back from Kovir, along with Priscilla; there’s Zoltan and male-human-looking Dudu and Chappelle. The one addition is Milva, who has spent all this time in Vizima to meet them for the last time after the case wrap up.

Geralt still has his trinket active, so everyone stares at him for a second, then they shake off their shock. Dandelion motions to Ilona to bring in their usual orders and the next couple of minutes are filled with hugs and “how are you”s.

Geralt is very surprised to see Angoulême bringing them their orders, but he quickly wonders why exactly he is surprised: he should’ve expected it would happen. That’s what they always do, he promised Angoulême a fresh start if she wanted. They all tend to “adopt strays”, as Regis likes to call it.

“Who are you, actually?” Geralt asks Angoulême when she sits with them for a short break.

“A stray from Cintra,” Angoulême smiles. “A petty thief and Vidort’s hide-and-seek champion, apparently. I have some experience in this kind of work, so it’s a good start,” she adds, making a wide gesture at the main floor with her hand. “I promised I’d be nice and not pick-pocket anyone and it’s going well so far. It seems to me that your friends, Zoltan and Dandelion, like fingerless, unruly people.”

Angoulême sits with them for ten minutes and then doesn’t have to be prompted to get back to work. They see her, practically dancing between the patrons, talking and joking with them: she seems to be in her element.

To Geralt’s surprise, Cahir joins them well into the evening, wearing dark jeans and a black button-down shirt, which is a major change from the combat trousers and loose hoodie during their investigation and then the suit in the courtroom. He’s clean-shaven, his short hair is stylised, so he probably looks like he did before the whole mess that caused him to lose his job. The most important thing is that he looks happy. He holds himself straighter, his smile is easier. Geralt has known him for only a few days, but he’s glad for the change.

Cahir sits with them, orders a beer and jokingly tries to use his newfound charm on Priscilla. It’s nothing serious and he makes sure she doesn’t get uncomfortable; at the first sign she’s uneasy he turns his attention to Milva, with whom he bickers and jokes and her lack of shyness makes for long moments of easy laughter and friendly jabs.

It’s weird, seeing them all together, all of Geralt’s friends, their merry band, the “war party”.

 _“_ _Aen Hanse,”_ Cahir says with a smile hidden by the rim of his beer jug. “In our language, it’s an armed gang, but one linked by bonds of friendship, or, in our case, the common goal.“

“Friendship applies to us too, I think,” Regis says with a soft smile, rubbing Geralt’s back gently. He hasn’t been able to keep his hands off Geralt for the whole meeting.

Geralt nods in agreement.

“Too bad that even with the case closed, it’ll be hard to get back to normal,” Dudu says.

“My life won’t get back to normal at all, at least to my most recent version of ‘normal’,” Geralt admits. “Eskel would risk his reputation reinstating me and I need people to trust me, whether I’m a witcher or a detective, and it’s impossible here now.”

“So Roggeveen won. He did destroy your life,” Milva grumbles.

“Nah, only damaged it. I have some things to figure out, but I’m experienced enough to see multiple options.”

“You know that wherever you’ll go, I will follow,” Regis says quietly, looking into his eyes.

Usually Geralt isn’t very open in public about his relationship with Regis, but this time he grabs Regis’ shirt and kisses him senseless.

* * *

When Geralt, Regis, Cahir and Milva leave the Chameleon at about 2 AM, Geralt is tackled to the ground from behind right outside the door; his friends yelp, but he’s unimpressed.

“Fuck, Lambert, get off me!” he grumbles and the weight on his back disappears.

“Mind if we steal him for the rest of the night?” he hears Eskel’s voice.

“Very fucking dignified, Captain,” Geralt says as he stands up.

“I see he’ll be in good hands,” Regis says with a smile. “See you later, Geralt.”

Geralt shakes hands with Cahir and Milva and watches his “war party” go towards Regis’ flat. Then, he allows his brothers to lead him wherever they want him to go.

First, they sail Eskel’s boat to the Swamp Cemetery, where they meet Vernon Roche and Thaler for a very climactic, middle-of-the-night witcher funeral for Adon Carre. There’s a pyre prepared with a special oil increasing the temperature of the fire. They don’t speak, they just watch as the already burnt body, wrapped in a white sheet, turns into ash, finally, almost a savaed after he died.

“Deserved better, Wolf brother,” Geralt murmurs, remembering Adon’s easy smile, friendly demeanour and professionalism.

Then the last three Wolf School witchers go to Eskel’s house in Swamp, where they mix spirit and White Gull potion and get wasted until dawn, discussing Geralt’s possible return to the Path for the time being. Geralt considers visiting Kaer Morhen, their former keep, but Eskel talks him out of it: even Vesemir was there last twenty years ago and by now it would be overrun by nature and ghosts of all boys and men who died there.

“Better for it to be forgotten,” Eskel says and they drink to that.

It doesn’t change the fact that Geralt has nowhere to go.

* * *

_From: Anna Henrietta of Toussaint_

_To: Emhyr var Emreis_

_Dear Cousin_

_The news from the outside world rarely reaches our little valley, but we couldn’t help but hear about the regicide in Temeria and its circumstances and consequences. Is it true that Geralt Haute, one of the best witchers that used to travel the world, is facing a voluntary exile and unemployment? If it is, can it be made so he moves to Toussaint? We’re in need of a professional monster hunter, and none of them visits us, as they’re either settled down somewhere else or unwelcome. Please, let me know what can be done, negotiate with whoever you need in my name. I’m willing to provide permanent lodgings for the witcher and his family if he has one, and a stable salary. I’ll send a high-ranking court member to help with the formalities._

_I’m looking forward to hearing from you,_

_Anarietta_

* * *

Emhyr var Emreis calls two days later, catching Geralt on moving the essentials from his flat to Regis’. The trinket from Keira is very useful during that time, as his previously friendly neighbours now hate him openly. Lambert has declared he’d move to Geralt’s flat; he used to be Vesemir’s neighbour — they lived on the same street in the Trade Quarter — now he wants to move as far away from their dead mentor’s flat as possible.

The next day is filled with heated discussions between Geralt, Emhyr, Regis and an envoy from Toussaint named Fringilla Vigo; most of them involve Geralt not wanting to be in any kind of debt to Emhyr.

“Call it late alimonies,” Emhyr suggests one time and that makes Geralt argue even more. “I’m just a messenger,” Emhyr says with a placating gesture, pointing at Fringilla. “You need a stable home, Toussaint needs a witcher, you’ll owe me nothing.”

Geralt shows up two days later at Vizima International Airport with a big backpack, his sword harness, Roach and a hangover left after his goodbye party at the Chameleon the previous night. Fringilla Vigo is waiting for him by a small passenger aeroplane, dressed in a well-tailored, grey suit, bright yellow shirt and matching stilettos; her makeup and carefully styled short, black hair give her a sharp, professional look. Geralt is ninety-nine per cent certain she’s a sorceress.

“Miss Vigo,” he greets her.

“Mister Haute,” she smiles at him. “Allow the crew to put your motorbike in the cargo hold and come aboard.”

He follows her up the stairs and they settle in comfortable seats opposite each other.

“Have you ever been to Toussaint?” Fringilla asks as she takes a stack of papers from her briefcase.

“Yes, I don’t remember exactly when, but it was well before the technological boom,” Geralt replies, looking out the window.

“So you’ve been there in the old times,“ Fringilla says and crosses her legs. “Culturally very little changed, but no knight errants are roaming the roads on horseback anymore. We still love our traditions and legends and being considered old-fashioned, but we have electricity, fridges, cars, mobile phones and everything else that comes with modern life.“

“Good to know.”

The engines start and the aeroplane starts to move into the airstrip.

“The Duchess asked me to show you the list of the most urgent problems we’re facing; you can expect to be approached with individual contracts as you go, as well,” Fringilla says as she passes Geralt three sheets of paper. “I can say that you’ll be pretty busy in the near future. All tasks on this list are well paid for by the Ducal camerlengo. With private contracts you’ll have to negotiate the payment with your employers.”

Geralt glances at the papers.

“You’re right. I’ll be very busy,” he comments.

Everything’s there. Monster nests, cursed houses, even some cold cases of local law enforcement: dozens of little contracts and it’s only the beginning.

Fringilla smirks.

“You can see we are desperate for help and very happy for you to come to aid us, as your fame precedes you. Here’s the paperwork for your future lodgings,” Fringilla passes him a much thicker stack of papers.

Geralt reads the papers and tries to not get lost in the difficult language full of law terminologies.

All he knows is that he’s given an estate north-east of Beauclair: a vineyard with a villa, the whole area belonging to him, with his name in the books, not leased. He can do whatever he wants with the estate as long as he doesn’t destroy the grapevines, which are of a very expensive and rare variety, therefore protected — and for now, also financed — by the Ducal court.

“Okay, what’s the catch?” Geralt asks as he finishes reading. He didn’t even notice when they’d lifted off.

“What catch?” Fringilla tries to look innocent.

“Why does the Duchess give a whole estate to a witcher? Is it uninhabitable or something? Come on, I’m not naive enough to just take something like this without some questions.”

Fringilla huffs.

“You’re right. The house could use some makeover, but the bigger problem — at least for us, not for a witcher — is that the place’s cursed,” she admits and then, seeing Geralt’s frown, adds quickly: “No people died, it’s only affecting owners, haunting them and limiting the harvest.”

Geralt’s frown only deepens.

“Look, if you manage to lift the curse, then good for you, happy living,” Fringilla waves her hand. “If not, nothing will change for the estate, because the vineyard is producing just enough wine to not go bankrupt. There’s nothing to lose for us and practically no financial risk for you. Maybe some people will be relieved if you manage to fix that curse problem and that’s it.”

“You do realise that if I lift the curse and then I’m lucky, I have a chance to own it for over two hundred years?”

“Good for you. I don’t see a witcher being able to stay in one place for so long, but as I said: the estate is yours.”

Geralt looks at the papers.

“Good thing I have no idea about winemaking,” he murmurs.

Fringilla laughs.

“It’s fun, though! With your enhanced senses, you may invent some new formula and help the estate make more money. The wine produced by a witcher in the cursed estate should stir up the stiff wine-making world.”

“Hopefully soon the formerly-cursed estate,” Geralt corrects her with a hint of a smile and looks at the papers again. “To hell with it, it’s not the craziest thing I’ve done in my life,” he sighs and asks Fringilla for a pen. She gives him it with a broad smile and watches him sign the estate ownership papers.

A steward comes and brings them two glasses of red wine.

“Speaking of wine,” Fringilla says and toasts Geralt. They try the wine and then hum with appreciation. “Oooh, it’s Sepremento! It’s your wine.”

“What?” Geralt startles and looks into the glass.

“It’s the wine made by your estate. We really hope you won’t break it.”

The rest of the journey is spent in silence, Geralt contemplating his future in the land of wine and monsters as he sips the wine, full of rich aromas of plums, cherries and cinnamon.

* * *

Toussaint itself doesn’t have an airport, so they land in Belhaven and then drive from there in a government-issued car, with Geralt’s possessions, including the bike, transported in a cargo truck. The road through the mountain passes is well maintained, so they can enjoy the sights of snow-covered peaks shielding Toussaint from the outside world.

The most impressive is the sight of the Toussaint valley itself, the explosion of green under the blue sky, with flowers in full bloom and clear waters of the Sansretour and Blessure rivers meandering between hills.

Beauclair, the capital, built on a hill in the shadow of Mount Gorgon, dominates the landscape. Fringilla tells Geralt that his new home isn’t far from the city.

It’s not a new sight for him, but he’s managed to forget it in the years since he’s been here last. Toussaint has always been enchanting; some people say it calls you back, that you have to return here someday, no matter how much time passes: and he figures it’s true.

What is waiting for him here is life on the Path, but limited to one warm country, far and isolated enough for him to be able to leave Rinde, Blaviken, Vizima and Vidort behind. He’ll have a house here, so no more sleeping under the open sky.

Regis will join him in a few days after he closes his affairs in Vizima and moves their money to Cianfanelli’s bank. Then it will be only the matter of finding Ciri and he’ll be able to call himself settled down again, hopefully.

Soon they drive across a bridge, then up the narrow road into an estate. The car stops on a large courtyard and a stylishly dressed, bald man with tinted glasses opens the door on Fringilla’s side. Geralt steps out of the car.

“Master witcher Geralt Haute, welcome to Corvo Bianco, your new home,” Fringilla says.

Geralt looks around the courtyard, observing the villa built slightly higher than the courtyard, the entrance to the wine cellar under the house, and the ring of smaller buildings surrounding the cobblestoned area.

Finally, his eyes land on the bald man, who is now standing in front of him.

“We’ve been waiting for you, sir. Welcome,” the man bows. “My name is Barnabas-Basil Foulty, I’m the majordomo of the estate.”

It’s a rare event that Geralt has no idea what to say, but that’s what happens right at this moment.

* * *

They take a walk around the estate and soon Fringilla leaves the vineyard to sort things out with the ducal office. By that time it’s evening, so the majordomo suggests that Geralt spends the night at his quarters, as the villa is in a state of serious disrepair.

Geralt argues that as long as it has a solid roof and walls, he’ll be fine on any makeshift bedding; at that the majordomo starts to argue, telling Geralt it’s unheard of that the owner sleeps in a worse bed than his servants.

“But there’s a bed,” Geralt replies, remembering the furniture in one of the rooms. It was cleaned, but it’s old and croaky: still better than many of his sleeping conditions in the past. “Also, believe me, me sleeping at your house will make us both more uncomfortable than me sleeping in that old bed.”

The argument goes on for another ten minutes, but Geralt is apparently slightly more stubborn than Mister Foulty, so he wins in the end. Geralt sets his possessions in the master bedroom, washes under a very rusty shower in the en-suite, changes into a well-worn sweatsuit and then flops onto the bed and calls Regis.

“How’s your new home?” Regis asks.

“It’s a whole fucking estate, they make Sepremento here.”

“Really? Sepremento is rare and expensive. How come they’ve just given the estate to you?”

“People think the house is cursed, no owner managed to stay here long. It’s never been enough of a problem to have someone investigate it, though. As long as the estate made wine and no-one died, they were fine. It’s been going on ever since humans owned the place, the first owner was an elf.”

“If it’s an elvish curse—”

“And from four-hundred years ago, then yeah, I’m probably fucked,” Geralt admits. He asked the majordomo about the estate’s history during dinner and the man turned out to have encyclopaedic knowledge about it. “And my gut says that the place is definitely cursed, so it’s cheaper than, I don’t know, a flat in Beauclair.”

“And who’d be a better owner of a cursed house than a witcher from the school training curse specialists,” Regis chuckles.

“Probably, yeah, although I’m not sure people here know that,” Geralt smiles, fully aware that Regis can’t see him.

“They will soon enough. Not to mention, you’re gaining experience in lifting centuries-old curses. What about the house itself?”

“It’s probably too big for us. You’ll love it: three bedrooms, a study, two bathrooms, a kitchen and a dining hall. We have a majordomo, can you imagine?”

“Oh, it sounds very appealing,” Regis says. “I’ll start sending some of our possessions.”

“You can sell your clothes, I bet you’ll love the local fashion: the loose suits, jackets worn over jumpers, the blazers and hats.”

Suddenly, a low rumbling sound comes from under the floor. Geralt freezes, silences Regis who’s about to say something and focuses his hearing.

He can recognise single words in an ancient dialect of Elder Speech.

“Will talk to you later,” he says to the phone and disconnects the call.

He gets out of bed, puts on sneakers on bare feet and leaves the house. On his way to the wine cellar, he follows the “cursed” feeling he’s had since he entered the courtyard for the first time earlier today.

It leads him to the first corridor to the right in the cellar, ending with a brick wall. He looks around the corridor: it’s empty, there are no crates or junk, unlike the rest of the cellar.

He goes back and grabs a pick-axe he’s noticed under a wall on his way here, then he returns to the blind corridor.

He takes a massive swing with the pick-axe at the wall. It starts breaking apart. He doesn’t hear the ancient words anymore.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been working when the majordomo’s voice reaches him over the noise.

“Master witcher? Sir?” the majordomo calls.

“What is it?”

“Can I ask you to come here, sir?”

Geralt drops the pick-axe on the floor and goes to the majordomo, who’s huddled under a blanket, stomping to warm his slippers-clad feet.

“Sir, I’m sorry for being frank, but what are you doing here in the dead of the night?”

Geralt ignores his question.

“What’s there?” he asks instead, waving his hand at the corridor he’s just left.

The majordomo visibly pales.

“We don’t use that corridor,” he replies.

“Why not?”

“It’s where the curse seems to be the strongest. There are some peculiar stories, feelings of dread, some people hear voices, so most workers avoid it.”

Geralt hums and turns to return to his work, but the majordomo calls him again:

“Excuse me, sir, but can it wait until morning? It echoes across the courtyard, people are worried.”

“Really? Damn, a nice first night of the new estate owner. Sorry,” he cringes.

“If you can’t sleep in your bedroom, sir, my offer still stands.”

“No, thank you, I’ll be fine. Go to sleep, see you in the morning. Feel free to sleep in.”

“I wouldn’t dare, sir,” the majordomo replies, very mildly outraged. “Good night.”

“Yeah,” Geralt waves his hand at him and watches the man go. He glances at the wall he was breaking down, the layers of bricks, looking older the deeper he reached. Fringilla Vigo has told him that some of the previous owners demolished the villa, thinking it was the building that was cursed; he suspects that the bricks from the house were used to thicken the wall. Whatever is happening behind that wall, it's right under his bedroom.

His medallion vibrates, detecting magic.

“First thing in the morning,” he murmurs and returns to his bed.

There are no more noises that night.

* * *

During the introduction yesterday he was just another man who’d probably leave in a few years, frustrated with the vineyard’s limited income and scared of the unsettling aura in the bedroom. Today he is the man who dares to step into the “cursed” corridor in the wine cellar, with the clear intent of destroying the barrier between the outside world and whatever has been affecting the estate.

Geralt knows it’s his first task if he really wants to give this place a chance. He still remembers the taste of Sepremento drunk on the plane and the sights on his way here. Toussaint has caught him and he’s unsure he wants to be freed from its influence, and not only because he has nowhere else to go.

It’s just a place he wants to show his friends. A place Ciri would fall in love within an instant. Where Regis would be accepted without question, because the constitution of Toussaint treats every permanent inhabitant equally, no matter their species. Nobody asks here who you are.

Having a home would feel much less like exile, even halfway across the world from his friends.

This time the workers are warned of the noises that ring out of the cursed corridor since breakfast; there’s a blanket nailed to the walls of the corridor’s entrance to keep the dust from the rest of the cellar. Geralt steps out only for food and drink. It’s more physical work than he’s ever done, but he doesn’t feel tired thanks to the purpose behind his actions. An incoming confrontation always releases a lot of adrenaline to his system and he can go for hours. He also has time to read the magic behind the curse, so he can prepare himself for what’s to come.

The main source of the disturbing feeling in the corridor and his bedroom isn’t of elvish origin, which is good news. Whatever affects the rest of the estate feels very different, more like very complex and prolonged mischief, meaning two factors have to be taken into consideration while solving the problem.

By the evening, the wall is only one layer of bricks, already cracked and on the verge of falling. Geralt’s covered in dust, now not only his hair is white, but also his clothes. Before the supper, he washes in the stream behind the house to not clog the pipes in his bathroom; he changes into a new set of clothes and joins the majordomo — Geralt decides to call him BB — for the last meal that day.

“Before everyone goes to sleep, please make sure they have a line of salt on every door- and window-sill — fireplace too if they have it — doors and windows locked for the night and everyone stays inside until dawn.”

“Salt? That is a very traditional method of keeping evil out,” BB comments.

“And it even works sometimes,” Geralt smiles.

When he goes to the cellar by midnight, the sword harness strapped to his chest and a couple of leather pouches in his pockets, he can see the white lines at every door and window, just as he asked. The only dwelling house that doesn’t have this protection is his own, but it’s empty for the night anyway.

He picks up the pick-axe and swings it at the wall. Soon there’s a hole in it, large enough for him to step through.

Behind it is a small cavern, with an intricate circular pattern drawn on the floor at the centre and a place of Power on the opposite end.

Within the drawing on the floor sits a person.

A ghost.

Geralt unsheathes his silver sword and approaches the drawings, the blade pointed to the ground: at the ready, but not openly threatening.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone’s face,” the ghost says in Elder Speech. His voice is distorted. “Who are you?”

“Geralt Haute, a witcher and the new owner of this estate. And you are?”

“What is a witcher?” the ghost asks.

“A monster hunter. I also lift curses and get rid of ghosts.”

The ghost tilts its head to the side, visibly curious.

In its obscured and transparent features Geralt recognises an elf.

“And you are?” he repeats his earlier question.

“My name is Ban Gavh’e, I was the first owner of Gwyn Cerbin,” the ghost says and stands up.

Geralt knows that Gwyn Cerbin is the elven name of Corvo Bianco. Both mean “White Crow”.

There’s a skeleton lying on the drawn pattern, Geralt notices. He hasn’t seen it before because the ghost was sitting on it.

He looks around.

“People were getting an unsettling feeling around the corridor and in the house above us, but it wasn’t you, was it. It’s those sigils,” he says, pointing at the pattern on the floor. “It’s dark magic, you’ve been trapped here.”

The ghost nods.

“My neighbour wanted to buy the estate, I declined, so he killed me and trapped my soul here. I doubt he foresaw the trouble he caused for himself.”

“In return, you limit the harvest and the grapevines are bound to this estate, they don’t take root anywhere else.” He knows that from BB.

“I was determined to drive my killer away from my home, but I loved the vineyard and people working on it, so I didn’t want to cause them any harm.”

“Listen, your killer is long gone. I can make my own money, but the vineyard could do better.”

“You want to make the estate richer?”

Geralt shrugs. If he can get rid of the ghost peacefully, all the better for both of them. The elf’s good graces were surprisingly easy to get into.

“I’m not much of an estate owner, but I’m responsible for it. I also tend to solve all kinds of problems: I can solve yours, too, if you want.”

Ban Gavh’e stares at him.

“I’m bored to bits and this trap causes pain, even to a bodiless soul,” he admits. “You seem honest and of a noble heart. If you intend to make a life for people here better, then when you free me, I’ll grant you my blessing.”

“Will you leave this plane?”

Ban Gavh’e puts his right hand over his heart. The place of Power behind him lights up.

“I swear. I’ll just maybe take a look at my former home from time to time to see how it fares, if you allow me,” the elf says.

“Was that place of Power always there or was it planted by your neighbour?” Geralt asks, pointing at the obelisk with his sword. “He was a sorcerer, wasn’t he?”

“He was. It’s always been there. Back when I was building this vineyard, it was considered a blessing.”

“It could be again, but now it just keeps the trap active.”

The elf smiles at him and for a short moment he looks happy: he’s realised that his precious home is in good hands.

“Will you free me?”

Geralt takes a small leather pouch out of his trousers pocket and pours its contents — a powder smelling of rare herbs and ozone — around the pattern on the floor.

“It won’t hurt,” he says, takes a step back and lights up the powder with Igni.

When the flames burn out, there’s no ghost in the cavern, no old elvish bones on the floor, and no unsettling feeling.

* * *

Regis arrives six days later; by that time, Geralt is elbows deep in his list of tasks and the makeover of the villa is progressing room by room, with the master bedroom, the en-suite and the kitchen already done.

Regis is prepared for BB’s welcome. Geralt isn’t there: he was called to an urgent situation in a nearby vineyard. Regis and BB settle on a bench by the house for a light meal with wine, waiting for him.

Regis asks about the estate, Geralt and local laws and prejudices. BB answers every question and looks excited about having a doctor in Corvo Bianco; he’s also happy for Geralt to finally have his partner with him.

Regis knows already that there won’t be much trouble with him starting his private practice; he can’t show any proof of graduating from a medical university, but he has the recommendation from his previous work and that should be enough for a private surgery on the estate.

BB opens up a little and he reveals that after Geralt’s successful lifting of the Corvo Bianco curse, the estate’s harvest this year already promises to be the best in decades.

The majordomo barely talks about the owner, but what he says shows that he has a lot of respect for Geralt; he’s also very observant and discreet. Regis notices that something is bugging the man and he has to work hard to finally make BB ask about the empty bedroom on the ground floor that Geralt ordered to be prepared for a teenage girl and then refused to give any information about who’d be living there.

“It’s obviously a very difficult topic for him, forgive me for my prying,” BB says.

Regis purses his lips.

“Please, keep it to yourself for now—”

“Of course!”

“— but Geralt has a daughter, Cirilla,” he reveals. “She’s somewhere we can’t get to and I doubt she knows how to find us. We know she’s fine, most likely well cared for, but…”

Regis shakes his head and doesn’t finish.

BB hums.

“Master Geralt is working so hard for the good of our community,” he mutters. “I’m sure the Lady of the Lake sees it and will help him find his daughter.”

“Regis!” they hear Geralt’s call from the gate and Regis forgets every question about the Lady of the Lake he wanted to ask.

* * *

Regis’ private practice is set up three days after his arrival, in a tiny house down the road. The house was unused but was in a good enough condition to be adapted for surgery. There is the reception, the office and even the post-op room. The location of the house makes it accessible for both the estate inhabitants and the outsiders. At first, most patients come from Corvo Bianco and Regis can’t make himself take money from them; then, the word starts to spread and Regis becomes known in the neighbourhood as a thorough and kind doctor with decent charges. Queues start to form in front of the house within less than two weeks and Regis has to make a schedule.

Geralt by this time has a reputation of a professional who gets the job done, but is slightly grumpy. He’s not disliked because of it; his charges are fair for contracts outside of his main list, he treats people with respect as long as they respect him and there’s no trouble with that. His sword is needed so much that the blacksmith he’s found in Beauclair, Zdravko Fertner, has decided to reduce his prices so Geralt can get good quality equipment. It’s the first time he has the proper armour and sword since the old station has been blown up; the sword he got from Eskel was good, but relatively cheap and quickly wearing out in the neverending workload.

Regis feels at home in an instant. He thrives in the warm climate, among happy people. Children come to him for stories and apples, adults love him for his kindness and professionalism.

They both adjust to the much warmer climate: Regis buys a new car, a small convertible with sleek lines and leather seats. He loves the local fashion and he’s happy to blend in. He has a full beard now, short, but giving him a dignified look.

Geralt adds some very timeless clothes to his wardrobe: he doesn’t wear black jeans and long-sleeved t-shirts anymore, but black linen trousers and button-down shirts, with a loose t-shirt thrown here and there, causing women to sigh at the sight of his arms. His favourite boots and leather jacket get out of the wardrobe only when he has a job higher in the mountains, and that’s rare.

He refuses to replace his bike and phone.

He’s slowly working through the list he got on the flight here and the locals add more contracts as he goes. He focuses on the problems on vineyards first, so most days it’s archespores, kikimores, giant centipedes and endregas; there are some curses to lift and some trolls to convince to relocate. He usually sets out early in the morning and returns after sunset.

He takes a look at the cold cases between monster contracts. They’re quite difficult and the local police officers, very capable at their job, had solid reasons to drop them after months of investigation. Geralt has been given the cases so he can provide an outsider insight and in a few days he’s able to help the police with three of them: one murder and two missing persons cases. None is solved yet, but there’s some hope for closure.

Geralt’s loner reputation doesn’t prevent him from making friends. There’s a young vintners couple he’s helped, now they’re sending him their wine in thanks. His relationship with BB is very friendly and respectful. There’s Corvo Bianco’s new cook, Marlene de Trastamara, who’s lived in an abandoned estate, cursed into a spotted wight for a hundred years before Geralt lifted the curse. After finding out she doesn’t have any family who’d take care of her, Geralt let her stay at the estate and work for him. She adjusts to her new role and the technology — she’s missed the boom — very quickly. Despite being Geralt’s employee, she’s far more direct than BB when addressing him and soon she sides with Regis in taking care of the witcher. Geralt is again outnumbered when discussing some reckless ideas and very slowly being fattened up with her marvellous cooking, as Marlene can’t look at his wiry frame.

Geralt stays in touch with his old friends via emails, texts and video calls. Dandelion with Zoltan and Priscilla has already promised to visit around Velen holiday, for the wine festival. Cahir is sending him photos again, of city landscapes and aerial views; he’s signing them “ac”, as usual. One day, Geralt gets a text from Cahir’s number, but it’s signed by Milva: she promises she’ll drag Cahir to Toussaint for Velen, so Geralt can expect a house full of friends in two savaeds, when he’s truly settled. Eskel and Lambert text him almost every day, Eskel with daily news from Vizima, Lambert usually makes fun of Geralt’s new lifestyle as an estate owner, but one message is about an old woman who came to him when he was cleaning up Vesemir’s flat and and offered to buy it and all Vesemir’s possessions; since she clearly knew Vesemir and mourned him, Lambert agreed.

The only person Geralt doesn’t call is Yennefer, who’s settled in Vengerberg. He’s postponing that call until Ciri is found. Yen knows Geralt has moved to Toussaint, but they have little to talk about for now.

* * *

Watching Geralt eat another of Marlene’s delicacies and discussing their new and old friends, Regis wonders how many of the little blessings they’ve received here so far are of Ban Gavh’e’s doing. Maybe it’s just Geralt’s generous heart, attracting people, caring about them and protecting them, so they start to care about him.

There’s still one blessing they need more than anything, though, one they’re reminded of every time they pass the empty bedroom prepared for a teenager, with clothes and other possessions in neat stacks on the bed and the desk, and a framed drawing of a wolf, a swallow, a kestrel and a raven hanging on a wall.

* * *

Something’s drawing Geralt to a small lake, overlooked by a steep, forested hill, about an hour drive from Corvo Bianco. He stops on the sandy shore and looks around; he can see an opening of a cave on the shore across from him, but there are no sounds of any creature like a spriggan hiding in it. The area is quiet and peaceful, the sun is shining, birds are singing, bees are buzzing, deer are grazing the grass at the edge of a small forest growing around the lake. It’s far enough from the road to be hard to find and there are no signs of human activity around.

He would expect a couple of drowners lurking around, but his medallion rests on his chest, not giving away any warning of danger.

He sits down on the dry, golden sand. His last fight has left him sore; he’s not wounded, but he’s dirty and tired. He doesn’t know how he’s ended up by this tiny lake with water so clear he can see the bottom and all the little fish.

With another careful look around he removes his sword harness and the outer layer of his leather armour. The shirt under it is in a surprisingly good condition, his silver sword and the leather only require some minor cleaning. He decides to leave it for later, for some reason he doesn’t want to put monster’s guts in the water.

“Vatt’ghern Gwynbleidd,” he hears a female voice and jumps to his feet, the sword sheath in his hand, but the sword still inside: he’s wary, but non-threatening. He looks for the source of the voice and sees a tall, slim woman with light-green skin and long hair, dressed in a simple long dress, walking towards him on the surface of the lake.

“Who are you?” he rasps out.

“I am the Lady of the Lake,” she replies and stops a few steps from him, still on the water, her hands kept at her sides, posture relaxed and non-threatening.

He stares at her. His medallion is silent. He has no idea of what species she is exactly, but there’s something regal about her. She’s not a siren, a vila or a nymph. She’s something else and now he remembers all the legends about the goddess protecting Toussaint, judging the knights for their chivalric virtues.

She smiles softly.

“In the old times, knights came to me to confirm that they lived by the five virtues,” she says. “Now there are no knights, but I still hear stories. There’s a lot of talk about the foreigner, the new knight who arrived three weeks ago from beyond the mountains, white-haired, pale, brave when fighting monsters, honourable when trusted with a secret, generous when faced with those in need, compassionate when met with those hurting, and wise when challenged with a riddle.”

“Nothing about mercy or forgiveness?” he asks through a clenched throat, remembering the bloodbath he caused at Vidort. He doesn’t regret it, but it doesn’t make him feel like a virtuous knight, especially facing a person that can judge him for it.

“Only to those who deserve it,” the woman replies with emphasis.

Geralt looks down.

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Well, everyone strays off the path once in a while,” the woman says with a shrug, still smiling.

He can’t help but smile himself.

“Are you here for your reward, then?” she asks.

Geralt’s mouth opens in shock.

“What reward? No, didn’t know anything about any reward, I don’t need anything from you,” he protests. He feels no danger here, and the woman, whoever she is, doesn’t act like she wants to drag him to the bottom of the lake, but while she looks and behaves safely now, it doesn’t mean he won’t end up with a nasty surprise pretty soon.

“And which virtue would be that?” the woman asks, still smiling.

“I have a roof over my head, my partner with me, I have enough money to go by.”

“But it’s a roof only, not a home. Your closest friends are far away, and as much as you love your partner, you’re missing a big part of your heart.”

Geralt doesn’t wonder how she knows this, but it’s true. Toussaint isn’t home, not yet. He left his life in Vizima, along with all the good memories of the last sixteen years there, his brothers and friends.

On the other hand, Regis feels more at home here than anywhere else, Geralt’s position in the society is much higher than in Temeria and his back stopped hurting a few days after he arrived; even the pick-axe work in the cellar didn’t exacerbate his condition.

Geralt knows what exactly the Lady of the Lake had in mind when she talked about the missing part of his heart. The hole left by Ciri being missing is so great it’s painful to think about it.

“And what can you do about that?” he asks through a tight throat.

The Lady of the Lake reaches out with one hand.

“Can you come with me?” she asks.

“Where?”

“To that cave,” she points at the shadowed cave entrance across the lake. “You can take your sword with you if it makes you feel safer, but you won’t need it,” she adds, her face serious and full of compassion.

He looks into her fiery eyes, trying to read her. Her face is open, calm, she looks like she desperately needs him to trust her.

He glances at the armour still lying on the sand. He drops the sword sheath and takes the Lady’s hand.

She takes a step back, guiding him to the water; Geralt hesitates.

“I can’t—” he starts, but then she drags him — without much force — to the surface of the lake.

He steps over the water, only the soles of his boots sinking slightly. Whatever he steps on, it seems solid enough to hold his weight.

She smiles, encouraging, and keeps walking backwards towards the cave, her eyes on his face, his hand still held firmly in hers. He follows her and doesn’t dare look away from her eyes. Sure, he can swim, but he feels like if whatever keeps him on the surface breaks, he’ll lose his chance to… whatever he’s about to see.

They reach the cave and he dares to look inside. It’s flooded, with a strange light coming from the depths on the other end of a fifty metres-long, rocky tunnel. The Lady of the Lake is still leading him, deep into the darkness, still staring at his face.

They stop above the light. Geralt looks at the Lady’s face with a frown, questioning.

“Please, close your eyes.”

He does.

“And now follow the path,” he hears and falls.

* * *

He wakes up, lying face-up on the grass. He’s completely dry, still dressed in his under-armour shirt, boots and leather trousers he wore for the giant centipede hunt.

He sits up and looks around. He’s at the edge of a forest, about as quiet and peaceful as the lake of the Lady. There are no bigger animals here, though, only some insects and birds provide background noise.

The forest behind him is dark and seemingly impenetrable. In front of him begins a path, winding uphill towards a cottage built on top.

His medallion is vibrating lightly. There’s magic around him, and even though he’s cautious, he can’t sense any major danger.

He starts to walk the path, tentatively, carefully looking around and silently regretting he left his sword at the lake. He has no idea where he is. The forest surrounds the whole area, the trees so tall he can only see the sun high up the blue, clear sky, but nothing beyond that. Leaves and small branches are scrunching under his feet, he feels a soft warm breeze; the temperature is mild, he’s not cold nor hot. It’s the perfect weather for… whatever.

He quickly reaches the cottage: the little house has curtains in windows and flowers growing around it. There are no footprints around.

Before he can put his hand on the door handle, the door opens and someone stands at the entrance.

“Ciri,” Geralt gasps when he recognises the person.

The girl yelps and jumps at him, hugging him with all her might, both laughing and crying at the same time, and Geralt feels tears flowing down his face, for the first time in a very long time.

He hugs her back, barely believing she’s there, but he can smell her, that unmistakable scent of her favourite shower gel and ozone. He feels her hands on his back, her breath on his neck, and even her thighs around his waist as she practically climbs on him to hug him closer, to be as close as she can, still laughing, still crying, and he closes his eyes to savour all these sensations.

The air changes and he opens his eyes to find them — himself, Ciri and Lady of the Lake — back in Toussaint, on the shore he sat on when he first found this place.

Ciri gets down to her feet, but she doesn’t let go of him. He keeps his hands around her waist and looks at the Lady of the Lake.

“Now that you’ve found what you had lost—” the Lady says with a soft smile, “—it’s time for your knightly reward.”

She has an unsheathed sword held flat in both of her hands, glinting in the sun.

“I…” Geralt starts and is surprised he can utter anything, his throat is so tight.

“Its name is Aerondight; it’s yours. May you continue serving Toussaint with all chivalric virtues, master witcher,” the Lady says.

Geralt lets go of Ciri with one hand and grabs the handle of the sword.

It’s silver, perfectly balanced and ancient, glowing lines of runes on the blade pulsing with magic. It’s priceless, the best blade he’s ever seen, better than anything Zdravko Fertner in Beauclair or Éibhear Hattori in Novigrad has ever offered him. Times when swords had names were long gone, but this one deserves it.

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

“I couldn’t wait to find someone who would put it into good use,” the Lady says with a playful smile. “It doesn’t deserve to be just a trophy on a wall.”

Geralt lets out a snort of laughter.

“Thank you,” Ciri says, looking at the Lady with a soft smile.

Geralt frowns at the Lady. Ciri sounded like she knew her.

“Good luck, to both of you,” the Lady of the Lake says, sinks under the water and disappears.

Geralt, still holding the Aerondight in one hand and embracing Ciri with the other, looks down at the healthy and happy face of his daughter.

Ciri only blinks at him, her eyes full of tears, and hugs him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it for this story! Thank you so much for the ride :). As usual, feel free to leave a comment. Keysmashing and emojis absolutely count, but I'd love to know which pieces you liked :) (for pieces you hated please report at keyrousse.tumblr.com ;) ).  
> That was my feel-good chapter. I hope you enjoyed it, too.  
> Trivia: 1. Zdravko Fertner is the name of Lazare Lafargue in the Polish localisation of TW3. 2. Corvo Bianco is north-east of Beauclair in TW3, but south of it on the map I linked to at the beginning of the fic. I decided to stick to the TW3 version. 3. Regis’ new beard looks like and was inspired by a drawing by Calyxestra on Tumblr, which I'd love to put a pretty link to but AO3 doesn't cooperate with me on that regard. Have the ugly link: https://calyxestra.tumblr.com/post/630848140839419904/a-very-respectable-barber-surgeon-after-his-first  
> Huge thanks to [embeer2004](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embeer2004/pseuds/embeer2004) for beta-ing this whole thing. This fic wouldn’t be this good without her. :)


End file.
